Time Capsule
by Twisted Biscuit
Summary: Set immediately after OotP. Harry is feeling fairly awful and rather dislikes his father after what he saw him do to Snape. But when Remus sends him a box full of his fathers old notes and journals, Harry starts to see a different side to James
1. Home, Bitter Home

**Extended Summary:** Sirius felt bad about Harry's reaction to Snape's Worst Memory. So, in order to make himself feel better about Harry and Harry feel better about James, he went off and found a box of letters and journals that James had started keeping the summer before their seventh year. It also had a few things from other people in it too however it is mostly James at this point.  
Regrettably he died shortly after that. (I'm very sorry if you didn't already know that Sirius dies, but come on. It was a book and a bit ago, try to keep up.) Upon finding it Remus, darling man that he is, sent it to Privet Drive where it was waiting for Harry when he got back for the holidays.  
This is the story of Harry's reactions to the contents of the box, interspersed with the actual contents of the box. It's set in the immediate aftermath of OotP.  
**R&R:** I'm not saying that if you don't review I won't write anymore, because I will. However I would be very grateful if you did review just as a favour to me because it makes me all happy and I spend the day walking around grinning like an idiot. Please and Thank you.  
**Disclaimer:** If I owned Harry Potter et al then: Bellatrix Lestrange would've tripped on a rock as she was fleeing Azkaban and tumbled into the black, watery depths below with a resounded shriek that can still sometimes be heard echoing off the cliff faces in the dead of night by the desperate, apathetic, isolated prisoners rotting in their cells... Hermione would've cursed Umbridge into oblivion, the 'Won-Won' monstrosity would never have occurred, and Ron would've been elected Grand Supreme Ruler of the Universe, along with his two main advisors, Fred and George Weasley.  
…None of that happened.  
…You work it out.

* * *

"And how long will it take to send them a… an…"

"Owl?" Harry supplied for his Aunt.

"Yes. How long _exactly_?" she asked him quietly while peering around the road for previously unnoticed pedestrians. It was getting dark and, for the most part, the good people of Little Whinging were indoors eating dinner. So Harry didn't quite understand why she insisted upon being so careful. Besides, it struck him as unlikely that any pedestrians would be capable of hearing a conversation inside Uncle Vernon's car, which had the windows wound up and doors locked from the inside.

"It depends on the weather." Harry told her in a bored sort of voice. "But seeing as how they aren't that far away I imagine it would take a couple of days at the most. Why?"

"Why!" Vernon huffed, angrily. "So we know you're sending them on time, boy! I know exactly what you're thinking!"

"I doubt it." Harry muttered. The internal debate he'd been having about whether there was a fruit punch flavoured Every Flavour Bean, had turned into a desperate attempt to recall Sirius' favourite flavour. Within seconds he was, once again, replaying his godfather's last moments in the back of his mind on a never-ending loop… And Harry sort of doubted Uncle Vernon knew that.

"You want to humiliate us by having those freaks come round!" he growled accusingly, also taking care to keep his voice comparatively low. Ah, of course, Harry realised. The Order's threat to come and get him if they didn't receive correspondence for three days in a row. Harry would have pointed out that, while he had been guilty of more than a few unpleasant thoughts towards Order Members recently, he would never have wished Privet Drive on any of them. But since he wasn't really in the mood for Uncle Vernon's '_respectable members of society_' speech, he decided not to bother.

A few minutes later the car pulled into the Dursleys' driveway. Harry wasted no time in getting out, grabbing his trunk, and practically sprinting up to his room. He slammed the door shut behind him and, just for good measure, shoved his trunk in front of the door-frame; effectively blocking any attempts to open it from the outside.

He mentally thanked Professor McGonagall for setting them so much background reading over the holidays. It would probably take a couple of bulldozers to move that trunk, and all it's contents, now that the lightening charm had started to wear off. Harry had thought it rather presumptuous of Professor McGonagall to assume he was taking NEWT level Transfiguration. He WAS. And, as Hermione had pointed out, he wouldn't have to do all that reading next year if he did it over the holidays. But still, the fact that she had assumed irked him slightly.

Without even bothering to turn on the lights, Harry collapsed onto his bed and closed his eyes firmly. It was amazing just how tired a person could get after almost a week of being utterly unable to sleep. It made them feel almost like a delicate crystal vase, that would shatter at any moment. It also, for some bizarre reason, made them feel colder than normal. Though he may have been imagining that one.

Lying in the vaguely familiar, yet distinctly wrong, bed gave Harry some form of respite. Not that he would be able to sleep now that he was in Privet Drive. But he would, at least, be allowed to stare off into space for vast periods of time. Something which everyone at Hogwarts tried their hardest to make sure he couldn't do, for fear that he would go mental and throw himself off the Astronomy tower or something.

He wondered sometimes if he was cursed. Not in the Hogwarts sense but rather in the old muggle sense. If he was damned, jinxed, doomed for a bad ending… First his parents had died before he got to know them. That, for most people, would be enough to elicit sympathy. Perhaps not overwhelming levels of sympathy, but rather that slight amount of sympathy that made people tell you they're sorry while tilting their head and nodding a lot.

Then he'd discovered that the most evil wizard of his time, possibly of all time, was out to get him. Not to mention said Dark Wizard's followers. By this point even Harry was tempted to feel ever-so-slightly sorry for himself. Being hunted would do that to a guy.

Then he thought he'd caught a break in third year when he found out about Sirius. His godfather, his father's best friend, who wanted to take him in and raise him as his own. Well that had last about five seconds, he thought bitterly, before Snape and the Ministry had managed to ruin it. That had made Ron, Hermione and Dumbledore feel sorry for him. As for Harry, he'd just been annoyed. He'd also allowed himself to feel slightly more loathing for Snape, though not too much more. After all, too much more would have resulted in an overdose of bile.

Then there was Cedric Diggory last year. God, he'd never felt that terrible before. Just as he was sort of starting to like the guy… And it was his fault. It had been him Voldemort was after not Cedric. "Kill the spare." Such a pointless, needless death that was all Harry's fault because he was such a noble prat and hadn't just taken the Triwizard Cup... that one had kept him awake for quite a while.

Then he'd been mocked, ridiculed, and insulted by people he had never even met, all because those idiots at the Ministry didn't want to see the truth. Once more, Harry hadn't felt self-pity so much as overwhelming anger.

And last but not least was Sirius. Sirius who he'd loved like a father, brother and best friend rolled into one and who had died in an attempt to save him… Whose death was still stuck firmly in Harry's mind, the way other people had the Grat Escape stuck in there. Whose slightly surprised look as he fell through that eerie curtain still haunted him…

Harry groaned loudly and rolled over to face the window, somehow hoping that this would effect his current mental state.

A half moon was visible through the curtains, shining brightly in the dark blue sky. Dark shadows stretched across his room and Hedwig cooed quietly by the window…

Harry's eyes opened wider. That couldn't possibly be Hedwig. He'd let Hedwig out of her cage at King's Cross to fly home. There was no way she beat the car, particularly since she would have probably hung around London until nightfall.

He reached out and flicked on the cheap reading lamp on his bedside table, illuminating the dark room with a bright, rosy light. Over beside the open window, four eagle owls were resting next to a large package they had obviously just delivered before Harry had arrived. Harry hopped out of bed and moved towards it, pulling out his wand. He had a sudden, ridiculous, mental image of Voldemort sending him a letter bomb or something. Despite the sane part of his brain saying that this was utterly preposterous, he kept his wand outstretched. Just as a precaution.

The largest of the owls had a note attached to his leg. Experience had taught Harry that when someone sent you a parcel and a note it was generally a good idea to read the note first. The owl glared at him slightly as he approached it but did not resist as Harry expertly untied the note. It occurred to him that six years ago, he would have probably run away screaming if he had encountered four pairs of fierce yellow eyes, staring at him like that. As it was, his only reaction was to swear under his breath for running out of Owl Treats. There was effectively no other way to tip an owl. It would also annoy Hedwig.

As soon as the envelope was safely in his hands, the quartet flew off into the night without glancing back at him. Harry shrugged and closed the window after them, wondering slightly as to why it was open in the first place. The note was written on a scrap of yellowing paper and written in an impossibly neat scroll that, somehow, looked familiar.

**Dear Harry,** it read.

**I knew that Sirius was searching for this ever since you spoke to us in April. He felt that you had been given a wrong impression of your father and it upset him. I believe his exact words were "I won't have him thinking less of James just because of that one idiotic incident".  
And so he hunted around a bit and found this. I must apologise for not sending it to you sooner however I was rather interested in it myself.  
In the package I sent you there is a collection of journals that James started keeping the summer before his seventh year. He had helped Sirius escape Grimmauld Place. Unfortunately that involved incapacitating Sirius's father, for which he was punished by the ministry and sent to a Quidditch Camp in Australia for most of his holiday.  
Everyone wrote a truly obscene amount of letters to him and I believe that all of those are included as well, along with one or two things from the following year at school.  
Please remember Harry, your father was a good man and a dear friend of mine and of Sirius. I can only hope that the contents of this package will help you see him in a better light.**

**Yours, Remus.**

**(If it doesn't trouble you too terribly much I would appreciate it if you didn't mention this to other members of the Order, at least not for a while. Strictly speaking we were not supposed to return to Grimmauld Place.)**

Harry sighed and put the note down on his desk. As much as he appreciated Lupin's intentions, he really wasn't in the mood for re-living James Potter's exploits at the moment. He had more than enough to be miserable about without discovering yet again that his dad really was as big a prat as Snape said he was, thereby proving the Potions master right, which Harry would rather not do. In fact, at that particular point in his life, Harry would rather have undergone Chinese Water torture than prove the Potions master right.

Ignoring the package completely, he walked over to his trunk and began pulling out his homework. Thankfully, McGonagall was the worst offender for holiday homework this year as all the other teachers were unsure about who would be taking which classes. They were, therefore, hesitant to set homework.

Dumping the books on top of Lupin's note he began reading, stubbornly ignoring the parcel by his window and pretending he couldn't care less about it's contents...


	2. James Potter and the Gripes of Wrath

**Disclaimer:** Nothing's changed. Ron still hasn't been elected to his rightful position and I still don't own Harry Potter. Quelle horreur…

**Additional info:** Unless otherwise specified, all the stuff in _italics_ is now Harry, and all stuff in **bold **is a letter found in the crate. Or James quoting something but that doesn't happen very often. All else is our dear James and his notes, letters and ramblings. M'kay?

**Last little note:** I know I'm not exactly allowed to do this but I'd like to thank sequinedfasade for reviewing Home, Bitter Home before I even had a chance to log off after posting it. I hope this chapter doesn't disappoint you at all.

* * *

_Harry worked hard to ignore the package for the next few days but it was getting harder and harder to do._

_This was partly because he'd finished all his homework. And partly because he'd been stupid enough to mention it to Ron and Hermione in one of his letters. Now both of them were pestering him to find out what was inside. "It could be really important." Hermione told him. "It might help you understand more about what sort of person he was." _

"_It might have lots of cool stuff to insult Snape about next year!" Was Ron's angle. Neither one of these points were really making Harry feel better. But it was, he supposed, a pleasant break from them asking if he was 'doing okay' while both were carefully avoiding the subject of Sirius._

_However the main thing that was making it hard to ignore, regrettably, was the fact that… his curiosity was killing him. Sirius had said that his father's head had deflated by his seventh year. And that was the year that his mother had started going out with him. What could have happened to make her change her opinion of him so much? What could he possibly have done to make her forget the sheer loathing she had obviously held for him just two years previously?_

_Out of simple, unadulterated stubbornness Harry tried not to think about it too much. He'd decided not to read any of it, and so he wasn't going to read any of it. That simple… or at least it was that simple for a while. Then he started to lose his mind. Which made things a tad less simple. His only choices for pastimes were either re-reading his homework, sending frighteningly long letters to everyone he'd ever met, mourning Sirius or opening that package._

_After a week or so, the first three options got boring. Particularly when you couldn't sleep anyway and were therefore conscious for twenty-two hours a day. Finally, at six PM on Sunday night, Harry gave into temptation._

_He walked over to the package, which hadn't moved since being delivered, and crouched down to take a closer look at it. The thing was about a foot tall, a foot deep and two feet wide and it was covered in an inordinate amount of brown paper. It took Harry almost five whole minutes just to unwrap it and reveal… an astoundingly ordinary wooden crate._

_With a small sigh he began trying to prise the lid off. Unfortunately he pulled a bit too hard and forgot that Lupin had already opened it, which resulted in him overbalancing and landing on the ground with a thump. He glared at the only other living thing in the room in an effort to vent his annoyance._

_Alas, the only other living thing in the room was Hedwig. _

_And she just glared right back._

- - -

_A little under an hour later Harry was sitting on the floor with dozens of random bits of paper scattered around him in a pitiful attempt at neatness. One pile held his father's old report cards and test results from school. Most of which, Harry was surprised to see, were actually on par with Hermione's. Including straight Os in Potions. Harry wondered a bit what his father would say if he'd seen Harry's last potions result… he chose not to dwell._

_Another pile held notes about Hogwarts and Hogsmeade that had probably been used in the construction of the Marauder's Map. James Potter was apparently very methodical in his approach to rule-breaking, since some of the notes were made on the back of homework assignments Harry recognised to be first year level. Early first year level. There was one on the 'purpose and application of Transfiguration in day-to-day life and purposes of the following course'. Harry seemed to recall McGonagall handing that out on their first day._

_He'd even found a couple of notes detailing the times of Lupin's absences from school. James had obviously spent quite a bit of time trying to prove that Lupin was a werewolf, before accusing him openly._

_The two largest piles however, were dedicated to assorted notebooks, all of which were plainly dated with the relevant letters stuck inside them. Harry had divided them into the 'Australian Summer' pile and the 'Post Australian Summer' pile._

_After checking that his trunk was in place and no one could get into his room, Harry carefully picked up the first notebook. It appeared to be a regular muggle journal. In fact Harry could have quite easily bought one almost identical to it in the newsagents down the road. Except he suspected that the absent-minded doodles of broomsticks and Quidditch pitches that littered it's bright red surface were his father's addition rather than an original feature._

_Harry could, in fact, recognise one picture of a snitch to be an approximate copy of the one that he'd watched James draw in his DADA exam just a few months previously. Had Harry not been intimately acquainted with the Marauder's Map, he would have simply opened the book and started reading. But since he was, and since he sort of suspected that his father would have been slightly paranoid about his journals, he opened it slowly, cautiously and facing away from him. It had only open about fifteen degrees when-_

_BANG BANG BANG! _

"_Boy! I don't know what you think you're doing in there but if it's anything strange then I'm warning you, you'll regret it!" Uncle Vernon's ominous voice roared, as the windows continued to rattle from his thumping on the door._

_Harry barely noticed. He was slightly preoccupied with the thumping heart that had leapt into his throat. "Do you hear me!" Uncle Vernon added. Harry rolled his eyes and gasped for breath, swallowing hard._

_Something about the thought of being cursed into a vegetative state by his father's old journals sat wrong with Harry, and he had been absolutely certain it just happened. But no, it was just Uncle Vernon being a pain in the neck. Not exactly an unusual hobby for Vernon Dursley, it had to be said. But Harry had a hard time being angry with his Uncle. Particularly since, as a result of his outburst, his father's notebook had tumbled to the floor. It now lay, directly in front of Harry, open at the first page and ready to be read. No horrifying curses or anything. Harry was in awe._

"_DO YOU HEAR ME BOY!" Uncle Vernon bellowed. Harry grinned to himself._

"_Yes Uncle Vernon. I hear you. Sorry, I was writing a letter." he lied, sounding as sweet and innocent as he could. Uncle Vernon quickly got the message and retreated. Harry heard him mumble something about being sorry to intrude, before shuffling back down the stairs._

_With a child-like glee, Harry leant over the book and started reading his father's neat, round handwriting. Neat, round handwriting that was written in a blue ballpoint pen rather than with a quill and ink. Apparently James Potter appreciated muggle stationary..._

Quidditch Journal Thing  
Entry number 1  
July 14th

Dear… thingy,  
Well, here I am. I've been in this hell hole for one day and I'm already starting to lose my mind. Mum told me to look on the bright side. To think of this "Not as a punishment, but as a learning experience". Learning Experience?

So far, all I've learned is that a six-year-old Texan with vertigo can throw up three times his body weight. And as much as I appreciate the importance of wide and varied knowledge, I don't really see THAT coming in handy any time soon. Not unless I can hover the kid over Snivellus' head or something. Okay, so planning ways to annoy Snape in the middle of the holidays is pathetic, even by my standards. But come on, I've got to cling to something out here.

Perhaps I should explain a bit more so that someone reading this will have a small idea of what I'm on about. Not that anybody should be reading this. So if you're reading this and you're not me (or maybe Sirius) then you should know that you'll be jinxed as soon as I get a hold of you. On the other hand, maybe I'll lose my mind this week and fly a broomstick into the side of a mountain and this is being read as evidence.

In which case, Remus I leave you my chess set since you were always better with the bloody thing than I was, Peter I leave you my Transfiguration notes since Merlin knows you need them and Sirius I leave you whatever you want, since you've pretty much got access to it all anyway. Except the chess set and my Transfiguration notes. Because they're accounted for. But I digress.

So, back to the explanation thing: Around about Christmas I may have, perhaps, slightly, in a way, helped a friend of mine run away from home. In order to do this I was required to place a very small and almost harmless spell on his father so that said friend could get out of his house without having various extremities cut off by said father. I mean honestly, how much damage can a Full Body Bind do, anyway?

Total Drama Queen if you ask me.

But when the Ministry found him four days later they blew things slightly out of proportion. As usual. They make a big deal out of something harmless and playful like that, but Voldemort is 'not considered a threat at this point'. How morons like that came to form our governing body is completely beyond me… I'm digressing again, aren't I?

Well the thing is, the Drama Queen happens to have some rather strong connections with people that I'd rather he didn't have any connections with. That is to say, Ministry officials. He convinced them that I kidnapped his son, and kept him locked in my house against his will (like anybody short of the Azkaban guards could drag Sirius anywhere he didn't want to go. Complete nonsense). The Ministry wasn't entirely convinced by this rubbish but they decided to punish me anyway. I think the judge's ruling went something like this:

"**James Potter, for the truly heinous crimes of prank-pulling, wise-cracking and general mischief-making I am sentencing you to six weeks of teaching screaming brats from all over the planet how to play Quidditch. Regardless of the fact that none of the aforementioned brats will be allowed near broomsticks until they are at least ten years old, and also regardless of the fact that they will be taught all about it at school soon enough. Since you're basically a cocky bastard about the fact that you can stay airborne for more than five minutes at a time this little exercise should make sure that any sense of pleasure you get from being on a broomstick is sucked out of you, leaving you a broken quivering wreck of a human being. And by the way, your hair's a mess too you scruffy little git.**"

All right so _perhaps_ that wasn't exactly what he said. But it was the general idea he was trying to get communicate. So there you have it (still not sure who "you" are, but I don't suppose that particular question is going to answer itself anytime soon, so we'll just move right along). Those are the events that led to me spending my summer in this hothouse they call a country. Rather than sitting at home, annoying Sirius and postponing my homework until the last three days of the holidays. At which point I will be forced to go without food or rest until it's completion, resulting in an amusing and unpredictable mental imbalance for all to see.

I'll explain more about where "here" is in a minute. Right now there's some whiney little eight-year-old called "Justin Case" (no, I'm not making that up) who is trying to tell me about how "NEWTS don't look that hard".

Tell you what mate, you try making up a couple of vats of Felix Felicis on your Easter weekend with Slughorn breathing down your neck, then we'll talk… twerp…

- - -

_Harry grinned._

_His stomach had twisted painfully at his father's casual mentions of Sirius and Wormtail. One friend who had been locked up, hunted down and killed, and another turned traitor and working for Voldemort. That was not exactly a happy thought._

_However, at this point, Harry kind of liked the guy writing in the notebook. He was enjoying reading something written by James Potter. Which meant that Snape was wrong, which meant that Sirius was right, which meant that Harry would probably sleep better at night. With a smug sort of satisfaction he reached up and grabbed the pillows off his bed to make himself comfortable before he started reading again…_


	3. Trying to find the upside, downunder

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter. Nor do I own James Potter, Lily Potter, any member of the Potter family or any associates of theirs, past, present or future. Clear?

**Oh and by the by:** Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed. Nobody has said it's terrible yet either which is a huge plus. -grins again- This chapter is _ever-so-slightly _longer than the previous ones. Next up, letters to (and from) the whole gang. What fun…

* * *

Quidditch Journal  
Entry number 2  
July 14th, again

Dear Thing,  
Young Mister Case was sadly drawn away by the dinner bell. I, in my eternally powerful position as "New Whipping Boy in chief"… that is to say 'Rookie Camp Counsellor', had the high honour of dining with Seth Jefferson - -the maniac who's in charge of this place- - in his private cabin.

Whoop-de-do.

Anyway, he showed up, we talked, he was way too enthusiastic and he's assigned me my very own cabin of little nightmares to look after as of tomorrow. There was someone else in there with me, some South-African girl with blond hair and far too much energy. She spent most of the time prattling on about how great it is here.

Yeah, right, whatever you say, Little Miss Nutcase.

So yeah, anyway. The place that I have been sentenced to spend my summer is "The Little Champions International Quidditch Training Camp". Hang on a minute, I'll go get the brochure's description. After all it's a lot more complimentary than anything I could possibly say about this establishment.

"**A tough, stimulating, motivating breeding ground for the Quidditch champions of tomorrow set in an idyllic desert setting and focusing on the skills needed for true champions. Your child will be absorbed in Quidditch from first thing in the morning to last thing at night and taught by enthusiastic and understanding counsellors who will work tirelessly to ensure their needs are fully met. At the end of the day they'll be returned to comfortable and accommodating cabins where they will rest, relax and drive (mostly) innocent Marauders, stark raving bonkers.**"

That was copied word for word apart from that last part. So let's examine this shall we? First of all, in a two page brochure they have managed to use the word 'Champion' no less than forty seven times. Do they think that if they repeat the word often enough then the concept will somehow become less crap?

"Tough, stimulating, motivating breeding ground for the Quidditch champions of tomorrow". For the love of Morgana le Fey, these Quidditch Champions of tomorrow are barely toilet trained, leave them alone. Seriously, these kids shouldn't be doing this. They're tiny, not to mention petrified of everything here. So far as I can see this is just a way for bitter, has-beens to live through their kids and turn them into something they're not.

If a kid wants to be a Quidditch champion and he (or she) has the talent to do so then not much is going to stop them. If they are told by Mummy and Daddy to go become Quidditch champions then their future captains will see right through them and they'll never be allowed to play, meaning they'll become bitter, twisted, has-beens themselves by the age of eleven. Now, what kid needs that?

For crying out loud, what sort of parent would do that to their child?

I mean granted, not exactly the most mature of people here. But if my kid came up to me one day and said "Dad, I hate Quidditch, I hate flying, I hate everything you've ever enjoyed doing and I want to do my own thing" then my response would be "Fine, whatever, I wish you all the best. Be sure to eat your vegetables."

Okay, it would probably be "You're sure about the Quidditch thing?" but if he or she was really sure about it, then good for them. Let them do what they want. I mean I think I've been robbed of a summer, but since I've had seventeen of the things that isn't such a huge tragedy. What about this lot? Some of these kids are five and six years old and they're already being forced to work the summer. They'll probably loose their minds by the time they reach fourteen.

Besides, this particular "enthusiastic and understanding counsellor" has spent his first day thinking up ways to drown the little gits, so they were sent here under false pretences anyway. But then again, that could just be the heat. Ah yes. The heat. Did I mention the heat? See this camp is in the middle of the Great Sandy Desert in Australia. And can I just comment on the huge amount of thought and concern that obviously went into THAT name.

They couldn't have held this little thing in Britain, could they? Despite the fact that it's widely considered to be the Quidditch capital of the world they still decided "Yeah, you know, the middle of nowhere is really a better venue." I wouldn't mind so much, it's just that Seth Jefferson informs me that they have campfire nights. A campfire night is where everyone takes refuge from the blistering heat, by sitting around a fire and 'getting to know one another'. Bloody hell, somebody stun me.

Things get started properly tomorrow, so I'm told. And I still have to look through the 'lesson plans' so that I'm prepared. You see apparently, in conjunction with being in charge of a cabin-full of screaming children I am also in charge of teaching basic flight manoeuvres for the first two weeks.

It's going to be one hell of a long summer.

- - -

_Harry rolled over and started working the tension out of his neck. "If my kid came up to me one day…"_

_This was killing him. Every word his father had written seemed to be designed to affect his son. He spoke about hypothetical children, his approach to parenting, his friends who betrayed him and his friends who died._

_Harry wondered for a moment if Lupin had written this himself just to make Harry feel better about his father but instantly dismissed it as ridiculous. Lupin was simply too honest to do something like that. He smirked. Lupin was even too honest to lie convincingly to Snape about Marauder's Map._

_He debated putting the notebook away. If he just put it away and never thought about it again then it wouldn't bother him and he wouldn't have to imagine his father's face if he only knew about his future… But he still wanted to know what happened to make Lily Evans change her mind about him. He supposed he could just skip ahead to the notes James kept in his seventh year and find out from them before putting everything away and forgetting about it._

_An image of Hermione's face floated into his head. "You did WHAT? You skipped parts of books! Are you mad? You'll be getting information _completely_ out of context! And then do you know what will happen? Walls will buckle, foundations will crumble, locusts will be unleashed, worlds will collapse and universes will implode, all because you skipped a few pages you lazy little git."_

_All right. Maybe that wasn't quite what she'd say. But she'd still be appalled. And since no one knew more about books than Hermione Granger, he supposed he should listen to her. With a severely put upon sigh, Harry continued reading._

_He was doing it for Hermione, he told himself. He, personally, wasn't interested at all… It was all for Hermione…_

- - -

Quidditch Journal  
Entry number 3  
July 15th

Dear Thing,  
You know I'm wondering why I don't just suck it up and say 'Dear Diary'. Probably because that has too many thirteen year old girl connotations for my oh-so-manly Quidditch Journal. Whatever.

I have never, in all my life, been surrounded by so many idiots. What sort of morons put five-year-old children, that have never been near a broom before, onto top of the line race brooms? Half of the kids went rocketing fifty feet in the air for Merlin's sake. I've never dived around so much in all my life, it was raining children.

And Amy, the South African nutcase I mentioned yesterday, just stood on the ground batting her eyelids at me, telling me how cute the kids were. "Oh you'd make a wonderful father, by the way there's another one plummeting to Earth, and would you like to meet up after lights out?" Vacuous twit. Evans would probably eat her alive. Metaphorically speaking of course… well, probably. If Amy was that moronic and then she started cursing Snape, then maybe it would be literal. You know when surrounded by so many brain-dead fools you really start to appreciate people like Evans. Then again, days that end in Y make me appreciate Evans, so probably not a huge surprise.

In the end I had to call everybody onto the ground and teach them one at a time. All these kids were just staring at me, hanging on my every word about flying. Like I'm some kind of expert or something. It was deeply disturbing. I mean I'm used to people listening to my opinion on things; people acting like what I say is the gospel truth, however, is just plain scary. Don't these children understand that I don't know what I'm talking about?

Wormtail, it has to be said, puts far too much stock in anything I have to say. Moony just looks at me like he's dealing with a slightly unstable toddler, who he has this underlying affection for but, in all honesty, would rather be reading a book (which half the time is probably true, I drive the poor guy crazy). Sirius basically agrees with me about everything in the first place. I swear I've had three hour long conversations with him and neither of us said a word.

Which brings me to everyone else. You've got Snivellus who dismisses everything I say (though that one's mutual, greasy little git). You've got Evans who is of the opinion that I'm on the same intellectual level as a rotten Bouncing Bulb. You've got Mum and Dad who just seem thoroughly amused by everything I say.

And then you've got these kids. Who keep looking at me like I'm the messiah or something just because I can pull off a Wronski Feint without wetting myself. Honest to God, one of them came up to me just before dinner and quoted a ten minute long rant I had about broom safety back to me, word perfect and then asked if I had any more tips. Doesn't that strike you as a little disturbing?

I'm the first to admit that I enjoy showing off and appreciate being praised for things I do well which does, I'm sorry, include cursing Snape. Nobody does it better. But there's a line between "show off" and "hero to be worshipped by all" and I don't know about you, but I was happy with my position on the show off side of said line. Anyway, have you ever tried explaining to a seven-year-old that if they're scared of the broom it'll control them? Or that if your broom is vibrating too much you need to calm down because it's feeling your tension? Or how about that despite all these characteristics the broom is still inanimate and it is not out to get them? No?

Well I have. And it's bloody exhausting.

And speaking of exhausting, I'm sitting in the cafeteria eating some hideous concoction that Arvid, the overly groomed Swedish guy, informs me are affectionately dubbed 'Sloppy Joes'. So far as I can tell someone ate a lot of bolognaise sauce, threw up on a bun and then served it to me. That, in itself, is not exhausting. Nauseating, yes, but not exhausting.

No, the exhausting thing is that I'm sitting here listening to some prat called McLaggen who has spent the past twenty minutes detailing how he flew too high once and nearly got hit by a muggle fighter jet when he was six. A story I find particularly unbelievable, considering the fact that, to my knowledge, fighter jets fly slightly higher than eight feet off the ground - -the highest I've seen McLaggen go without loosing control- - and also since, so far as I'm aware, there are no muggle fighter jets hovering around Diagon Alley, which is where this joker lives.

I'll have to ask Sirius if he was at Hogwarts because I don't remember him, even though he told everyone he was in Gryffindor last year. Actually, sod it, if it'll shut him up I'll ask now…

Hmmm. I asked him. He didn't answer. In fact, he appears to have developed a severe case of lockjaw. Wonder if it'll stop the idiot talking. Oh no, there he goes again. Acting like nothing happened. Come on mate, you could at least be a good show off. Good show offs don't let quiet kids with notebooks a plateful of bolognaise vomit undermine them in front of everybody.

Nope, not a word about it. Pah. Amateur. Maybe I should teach classes on being a first class, show off too. "A brilliant breeding ground for the little tosspots of tomorrow, where they will be taught arrogance and obnoxious behaviour by experts in the field." Maybe not.

Oh marvellous. Amy just came in and keeps trying to talk to me. And now McLaggen is staring dreamy eyed at her… and glaring at me. Great. Just great. Mister no-neck is acting like I'm his arch-rival in life and I haven't even picked up a fork yet. Wonderful. You know what, bugger this. I'm going to my cabin. I haven't been there yet and I might as well meet the little gits before the 'evening activities' start.

- - -

_Harry frowned. McLaggen. He'd heard that name before. God knew where though…_

_An image of Oliver Wood ranting about his replacements appeared in Harry's mind. "And then there' McLaggen… he's very good but I don't think he'd last long with you lot. Especially not if Fred and George are still here. Which brings me to Dean Thomas…"_

_That was right. He was the slightly irritating sixth year whose hair Fred and George had dyed pink last year. Was the McLaggen in James's notebook his father? Uncle maybe? Whoever he was, Harry didn't see him lasting long if he kept on glaring at James Potter like that. After all, as Snape's memory had shown, James was fairly potent when unprovoked. Harry couldn't imagine him being much cuddlier when antagonized._

_He glanced at the alarm clock by his bed. It was coming up for ten o'clock at night. With a shrug he turned the page in the notebook and continued reading._

_- - -_

Quidditch Journal  
Entry 4  
July 16th

Dear Thing,  
It's four o'clock in the morning so forgive my less than brilliant humour. I met the kids in my cabin, the four of them.

There are supposed to be six kids per cabin, all boys or all girls. I have three boys and a girl because they're the ones there was no room for anywhere else. I was, originally, in a cabin with six of the cockiest little tossers you've ever met in your life but I switched with McLaggen. After all, it was a match made in heaven. One of the brats was even lacking a neck, so he'll feel right at home.

The first kid is annoyingly edgy. He jumps like six feet into the air if there's a loud noise. His name is Albert Larson, he's nine and comparatively old. Judging by his build I'd go with Keeper as his position of choice but that's just a hunch.

After that there's Ignatius Octavius, who has so many illnesses and ailments that I'm amazed he doesn't drop dead right here. I'm actually going to have to talk to mum about his health, there's got to be something that could give the kid a bit of life in him. Anyway, he's six years old, tiny, sickly pale and looks so tired that it even makes me feel drowsy. Half the time, he seems so frail that a strong wind might float him away. Until he gets a bit healthier I don't know what we're going to do with him.

After that we have Yuan Ping. Or Ping Yuan. I'm not one hundred percent sure. We call him Ping anyway. He's from China, and amazingly cheerful. Again, not the healthiest of people but he seems to be enjoying his state of ill health. He's eight years old and I'd say Beater material.

And last but not least, Sofia Ivanova. She hasn't said a word to me since I came here. I'm guessing she's destined for Chaser-dom but it behoves me to keep my mouth shut about such things until she opens hers. She keeps trying to read a book but in a cabin full of disgruntled boys she's not having much luck. She's seven and is like a mini Remus except female and scary. And she keeps rolling her eyes at all the displays of idiocy she sees. All the things I'd love to roll my eyes at but can't, which makes me automatically like her. She should be interesting to work with at any rate. She's from Bulgaria and could give out a scowl that would make Sirius weep with pride. I think I like her.

Now I'm telling you all this because I found out from Seth that there's an inter-cabin tournament type thing at the end of the six weeks where each cabin forms a team. Which explains why Ping and Ignatius didn't get picked by other cabins: they both look unwell and everybody here is psychotically competitive. Albert, I assume, was just too jumpy to make friends during his first few days here and so got left behind. And Sofia is one of only seven girls here. The other six are all wearing bright pink, pigtails and mini-skirts while giggling a lot. She's wearing black jeans, a black polo-neck (in this heat) and scowling into a book called 'Illegal Animagi; the hidden threat'.

So she wasn't really going to fit in.

I'll be honest though and say that her book is making me nervous.

So here's how it'll go for the rest of my stay here: I spend the mornings teaching everybody basic flight manoeuvres with the other counsellors, then I go to lunch. After lunch I train my cabin on their own and try to ensure that nobody dies horribly or anything before evening activities. Evening activities consist of songs, stories and 'Bonding Sessions' around the fire.

I had my very first Bonding Session last night and I can safely say that I would rather be the one tell Sirius's mum that her real dad was a muggle milkman named Ed, than go through another one of the dratted things. What sort of question is "If you were an animal, what animal would you be?" anyway?

I had to sit there and pretend to think about it for Merlin knows how long before saying stag. Then they went around again and asked why we thought this. What was I supposed to say? "Oh yeah my personality has antlers". And why, exactly, does anybody need to know my favourite colour? Will me telling them that I like dark green somehow enrich their lives or give them a deeper understanding of the world around them? No.

After we finished 'getting to know one another' we were allowed to go back to our cabins. Which was amazingly dull since eight-year-olds tell pathetic ghost stories. So I told them a decent one about the Bloody Baron, and then they all got scared and couldn't sleep for…well… ever. After a slightly sub-legal calming spell on the cabin they finally nodded off.

Sadly, Ignatius (Iggy) said something about night-terrors so I spent most of the night in with them, keeping an eye on him rather than going to bed in my private room. Well, when I say 'private room' I mean a tiny area at the end of the cabin that's walled off. There's a single bed in it and a fold down desk, oh and there's my trunk but that wasn't really provided.

Anyway, by the time I figured he'd be safe to go to sleep I was beyond sleeping. So I'm writing in this thing and glaring out at that frigging desert. Not that there's much to see. You want a description of my view? Sand dune, sand dune, someone else's cabin, sand dune, sand dune, dead tree, sane dune. Lovely.

I've still got a couple of hours to kill before the kids wake up. Maybe I'll write everyone. Ask mum about how to improve Iggy's health, ask Dad for tips on teaching kids to fly, maybe ask Remus if he knows any child-friendly horror stories and ask Sirius… God, anything. Ask him how he feels about the metric system I it'll give me some contact with someone with a personality.

If I'm honest, I'm so busy craving some contact with some familiar people that I'm about three Sloppy Joes away from inviting Snivellus for tea and crumpets. Yeah, that's what I'll do. Just a general pleading message to everybody… then maybe I'll go for a run or something.

- - -

_Harry smirked. Something about the idea of James Potter being scared of a seven year old girl with a book struck him as terribly amusing. "Oh yeah, my personality has antlers" The man was quite clearly losing his mind and he'd only been there a few days. He had to admit, the idea was cheering Harry up to no end._

_It wasn't that he wanted his father to suffer, per se, it was more the fact that if his father suffered then Harry could mentally reconcile his treatment of Snivel… Professor Snape, in his head._

_He cringed as he mentally used the Marauder's old nickname for Snape. Perhaps the notebook was brainwashing him…_

- - -

Quidditch Journal  
Entry 5  
July 17th

Dear Thing,  
Do you know that I'm only allowed to pick up incoming mail on Thursdays and Sundays? What possible logic is there in that? Seth says it's to keep us all focused. Because teaching kids to go five feet in the air is obviously so difficult that all your energies have to be directed at it. Dung.

Anyway, moving on. Sofia happens to be a glorious flier. I discovered this because yesterday, after I was done with my letters, I went for a run around the camp and I saw her flying in the compound. The second she saw me she fell off her broom and ran inside. She wouldn't even get on the thing while other people were watching and she still hasn't said a word. I asked Sirius what to do about it in my letter but I'm not sure how much help he can really be since he's never met her.

Iggy is fairly terrible, if I'm honest. I mean he does have potential in him. Deep, deep, deep in him, but I'm not entirely sure why his parents sent him on this thing. When I asked him about it he said that his whole family had been big fans of the game and wanted a good player. Idiots. You can't force someone to be good at Quidditch. I told him that I'd make him the best and most competent flier I possibly could but that when he went home he should tell his family to shove a broomstick somewhere unpleasant. (Or pleasant if you're into that sort of things I suppose, I'm not here to judge, merely complain. Still, a whole broomstick, can't be a good idea either way. In fact I remember mum saying something about that… ah, the joys of having a Mungo's healer as a mum.)

Iggy seemed delighted by this suggestion.

Albert is my first real problem, he's good. He is very, very good. But he is so damn scared of going near the broomstick that I don't see how we can exploit his talents unless we manacle him to the blasted thing. And he won't tell me why he's scared of it either, which isn't a great help to me.

Ping isn't a spectacular player or anything but he's got skill, no doubt about it. My first big problem with him is the fact that he lacks the fitness required to participate in Quidditch for more than twenty minutes at a time. I tried to keep him playing for two hours straight and he fell off his broom. Which, when we're tackling high altitude problems with the class, and are 150 feet up, is sort of a dramatic situation. I've never dived so fast in my life.

There's that and there's the language barrier. He understands English no problem, however me understanding him is slightly trickier. The kid has one hell of an accent on him.

I just finished dinner and am writing this before going back and grabbing my kids before evening activities. I know this is sort of abrupt, but Amy just walked in. I am so out of here…

I wonder who all will have been able to respond to my letter by tomorrow?

- - -

_Harry got to his feet and started pacing. The next page in the notebook was stuffed with over half a dozen envelopes addressed to his father. The thing was he wasn't sure he wanted to read them. _

_It had, quite suddenly, occurred to him that this notebook was deeply personal. The letters would surely be more personal, wouldn't they? Did he honestly have a right to be looking through them anyway? It wasn't just his father either. Sofia Ivanova, wasn't she on the Bulgarian Quidditch team? Did she really want some kid she'd never met reading about what she was like as a seven year old girl?_

_He pinched the bridge of his nose and willed away the discomfort that had appeared in him as he imagined kids he'd never met reading about his exploits over the years. Or, worse still, about his relationships with people. Would he really want complete strangers reading about him and Cho? No he wouldn't._

_He had a horrible mental image of people across the face of the Earth discussing the fact that he'd been stupid enough to go on a date with someone whose boyfriend he'd seen killed just months previously… Harry didn't like that image._

_And yet there he was reading (or hoping to read) about his mother and father._

_Harry threw himself onto his bed and stared at his ceiling. What he really needed to do was sleep on it. But since that probably wasn't going to happen he could just "stare off into space" on it instead… He wondered if Dumbledore ever had problems like this when he went looking through the Pensieve… _

_That was his last thought before he slipped out of consciousness._


	4. Dreams, Letters and Geckos

**Disclaimer: **Not mine. Don't sue me. Not that you would, lovely people you all seem to be…

**Note:** There are letters from James's parents in this chapter. I made his mum a healer, and his dad an Auror, and I gave them a couple of ongoing jokes. Jokes that will elude most people since they don't live in my head :) First of all, his mother cracks jokes about being in love with Remus's father to wind up James and her husband. Second of all, James is always pestering his dad for information on what's going on with Voldemort and thirdly, James is taller than his dad and constantly reminds him about it just to annoy him. More at the bottom of the page. I do drone on a lot…

* * *

_Shafts of brilliant sunlight occasionally cut through heavy clouds, the light bouncing off the light rain that was falling to create dazzling light. Then the clouds would shift again and once more the countryside was thrown into a springtime gloom._

_Frowning, Harry looked down at himself and he saw his normal, black, work robes. He also saw that, despite the continuing rain, the work robes were perfectly dry. This didn't surprise him. Nor did the fact that he was suddenly standing on the front lawns of Hogwarts school of Witchcraft and Wizardry, next to the beech tree by the lake. After all, how surprised could a person really be in a dream?_

"_Wondered when you'd get here." a slightly bored, but clearly amused voice said from behind Harry. He whirled on the source with his wand outstretched and a curse ready on the tip of his tongue. He was met with the smirking face of James Potter, sitting comfortably under the beech tree in his scarlet Quidditch robes, playing with a tiny golden snitch. "Been waiting ages. And you know this thing gets boring after a while." He let the snitch fly off without glancing at it again and got to his feet. Harry gaped at him, still not moving his wand from it's outstretched position. _

_Apparently a person could be very surprised in a dream._

_James chuckled and walked a few steps down hill towards the lake. _

"_When a guy's dead father stops in past for a visit it's generally considered polite not to threaten him Harry." he called over his shoulder, showing absolutely no concern for what Harry might do to him. Harry blinked a few times and then continued staring at him. He looked a bit different to the last time he saw him. He was taller for one thing, had broader shoulder and more defined facial features. He also had a very faint, and hardly noticeable scar on his cheek from where Snape had hexed him. His hair was no longer crumpled and was basically as neat as it was possible for a Potter's hair to get, and he was holding himself differently. More upright; he somehow seemed more approachable and comfortable with himself, while also seeming distinctly more hostile at the same time._

"_What-who- why-" Harry managed to choke out before clearing his throat. "You're not real." he said finally. He shoved his wand away and glared at the dream James who was staring blandly out at the lake. "You're definitely not real."_

"_Well of course I'm not." James responded brightly before turning back to Harry. "I'm dead. Or hadn't you noticed? But since you've been rummaging my unmentionables," he said with a mischievous smirk "Your subconscious has decided to let me come to call."_

_Harry glared harder at his fictional father. He was slightly annoyed at figments of his imagination having a better handle of the situation than he did. "So you're a dream?" he asked sharply._

"_Uh-huh. You got it." James told him, obviously waiting for something interesting to happen. Harry wondered vaguely what possible purpose there was for this dream. Would standing around by a lake somehow make him feel better about his father's behaviour? Would James suddenly launch into an explanation of why he cursed Snape? Would he tell Harry that he didn't mind him reading the notebook or that he did mind? Or would he talk to him about Sirius?_

"_I think you're over-estimating how much you can take in one dream, mate." James told him with a grin. "I mean you haven't even been to sleep properly for over a fortnight. You'll need to give it a bit of time before you get to the epiphany part. But if you really want to know: I cursed Snape because I wanted to and I thought he deserved it. I don't mind at all if you read that notebook or for that matter anything that I wrote. Sirius wasn't your fault whether you're prepared to believe that or not. And I don't have to justify myself to you." he winked. "It's one of the benefits of being dead Harry, you sort of stop caring what people think of you."_

_James ran his hand through his hair to remove excess moisture. Harry looked at his father incredulously. "Even your own son?" he demanded. To his surprise James just laughed._

"_Especially your own son." he took one long stride towards Harry and looked down at him affectionately. "I'm not ashamed of my life, Harry, or anything in it because every single thing I did led to me becoming your father."_

"_Which worked out so well for you." Harry commented sarcastically. James smiled happily._

"_So you feel guilty do you? I must admit, I sort of suspected that. I mean every other bloody thing is your fault, so why not that too?" Harry opened his mouth to argue with that sentence but was cut off by an impatient James. "Look. I may have been a lot of things that you don't like, and I may have done a lot of things that I'm not proud of. But one thing that will never change, in spite of everything, is that I loved my wife and I loved my son. The day I was married, I knew that I would die for Lily and the day you were born… no, even before that. When you were in the -womb- I would have died for you."_

_Harry scowled at him. Not because he felt particularly hostile, but because he couldn't think of a more suitable response._

_James smiled. "I think the real problem we have here… is that you know that. And that you can't seem to wrap your head around that being true after what you saw me do. But here's the thing son: I'm your father. You know that, you've always known that. You can hate me, you can ignore me, you can spit on my grave… nothing you do will change the fact that you're my son. In fact," he said carefully, "There really is only one thing you can do at this point Harry. Other than move on with your life that is."_

"_And what's that?" Harry demanded. James smiled._

"_Wake. Up."_

_- - -_

_Harry's eyes snapped open. An event he instantly regretted taking place as soon as the sunlight blinded him._

_He clamped his hands over his eyes and moaned loudly. Everything ached, his mouth was dry and his neck felt like someone had shoved an iron rod down it. He was absolutely ravenous and could have quite easily drained the Atlantic in a single gulp if his sandpaper-like tongue was anything to go by. How long had be been asleep anyway? Gathering all his Gryffindor courage he opened one eye a crack and peeked at the clock. One o'clock._

_The still-semi-unconscious part of his brain asked "What's the sun doing up at one AM?" the rest of him just screamed in protest at being awake all of a sudden. But Oliver Wood had certainly done one thing for everyone on his Quidditch team; he had made it habitual for them all to wake up under less than favourable conditions, with every fibre of their being complaining about it, and get up anyway._

_To this end, Harry rolled out of bed and to his feet and headed for the bathroom._

_Half an hour later he came back into his room practically singing the praises of the man who invented showers. Not to mention the genius who came up with tea. He held in one hand a plate piled high with crackers and cheese and in the other a very large glass of ice cold water._

_Aunt Petunia had complained slightly about him taking the last of the crackers but he'd muttered something about 'cracker deprivation being considered child abuse in the Wizarding world' and she'd let it go. He had been asleep for fourteen hours and had, to his knowledge, dreamt once. That was rarely a sign of brilliant health and so he needed food._

_Outside the birds were singing, the sun was shining and children were laughing merrily. Harry found it all rather annoying, but he still kept his window open to let the breeze in._

_He collapsed into the chair by his desk and stooped to grab his father's notebook. The room was small enough that he didn't even have to move to reach it but he didn't mind. His dream had settled one thing for him if nothing else: He was going to read the rest of that notebook and he was also going to read every scrap of paper stuck inside it._

_With that thought firmly in mind he flipped it open to where he'd been the previous night. A collection of envelopes were stuffed into the page with different addresses on them. Harry grabbed the first one and pulled out the contents._

_The first page held James's now familiar handwriting while the second held a loopy, feminine, barely legible script. Harry shoved a cracker in his mouth and started reading James's letter._

_- - -_

Dear Mum,  
Before continuing this letter any further I would like to make one thing clear: I do not expect the phrase 'bright side', 'learning experience' or 'justified punishment' in your response.

Now that's out of the way: HELP ME MUM!

I've got to take care of four little kids and I have no clue how to do it. Add to that the fact that one of them can't or won't talk, two of them are too ill and unhealthy to do anything anyway and the other one is terrified of broomsticks and you've got a problem or four.

I wanted to talk to you about the two unwell kids actually. Ping and Iggy. Ping doesn't have anything really wrong with him, he's not even obese or anything, he's just really unhealthy and has low stamina. I was wondering if there's any nice, safe, healthy way to whip his arse into shape. Preferably one that would mean you won't yell at me for endangering him.

Because I don't particularly want to endanger him.

He's quirky and he does this great Daffy Duck impression too, which is so much funnier in Chinese for some strange reason. Daffy Duck is this muggle drawing that moves really fast and has this guy talking over it. I think they call it a car-wreck or something.

Iggy is a bit more of a problem, he seems to have every ailment known to mankind. Except I can't find anything that's actually wrong with him, he's just got all these symptoms and no obvious cause. He seems miserable and depressed anyway, and he doesn't want to be here, even if he is starting to have fun. He's having fun thanks to yours truly by the way, I'm just so innately likable.

Would greatly appreciate any advice, love you loads, missing you,

James.

P.S. Please make sure that Sirius remembers to visit Remus **before** Saturday night.

**-**

**Dearest James,  
**

**First of all Mister Potter, I'm your mother so don't you dare try to order me around. (Besides, if you already knew what I was going to say then where's the fun in toying with you?) And: Aww. My little boy still needs his mummy. I'm welling up.**

**All right sweetheart, I'll be serious from now on. I think it's great that you're taking care of children, you'll do marvellously I'm sure. You've always had a way with young children even if you have tried your very hardest to pretend that you don't over the years. Just be yourself and trust your instincts and everything will be fine.**

**Now about these children in your care.**

**I would recommend that with "Ping" you simply start making him exercise more often. Be careful however, if you make it seem like you're making him exercise he might get angry or, more likely, his mind will realise that he's doing exercise and he will think he shouldn't be able to do so. His body will immediately begin to react as if he can't do it even if he already is, so my advice would be to take his mind off of it when you do it. Your father suggests screaming "Oh no! A stampeding heard of Hippogriffs!" at the to of your lungs. Personally I would recommend the more sedate approach. Something like "Oops, I forgot something. Would you run back and get it Ping?" Be careful to discreetly monitor his health and make sure you aren't pushing him too hard.**

**As for Iggy, I would recommend a placebo. It's sort of a crude muggle concept whereby they give the patient a pill or potion that has no healing properties whatsoever and is, very often, completely useless. The theory goes that the patient will THINK they are getting better and so they automatically WILL start getting better. This is also helpful in the case of psychosomatic illness which I believe your charge is suffering from since he does not wish to be there in the first place. I've included a few phials of realistic looking potions but rest assured, none of them have any effects on the human body whatsoever. Well except the purple one, that turns your tongue green. But you can tell him it's just a side-effect or something.**

**Your father is looking over my shoulder and calling me a nutcase as we I write this, so if he doesn't write back to you himself within the next few days you can take it as read that I killed him and ran off with Remus's father. **

**I will, of course, ensure that Sirius visits Remus before Saturday. He's actually already been twice, he's very bored without you here to finish his sentences for him. So bored he's already done all his homework. In fact I think he's starting on yours.**

**I'll always be here if you need any advice, I love you sweetheart, and I, too, am missing you terribly. (Which is slightly strange for both of us since you spend most of the year away from home.)  
**

**Your loving mother  
**

**P.S. Your father has apologised. Such a shame… I was looking forward to running away with John. We could have gone to Fiji…**

- - -

_Harry smiled slightly at the paper in his hand. Saturday night, he supposed, was a full moon. If his earlier notes on the lunar cycles were anything to go by, James Potter was quite aware of when Lupin would be changing and when he wouldn't be._

_Harry had never really thought about his grandparents before. He remembered asking Aunt Petunia about them once when he was little. Her only response had been to say 'They died before you were born and don't ask questions!' Don't ask questions, don't ask questions. That rule seemed more and more bizarre to him the older he got, and yet it hadn't been too long ago that he'd accepted it as a fact of life._

_Harry got to his feet and cleared a space on the floor. He then started pacing the room. He wasn't feeling particularly anxious or stressed, it was just that his muscles were still a bit off as a result of his sleep marathon and he had to work the stiffness out. After his fifteenth lap around the room he grabbed the next envelope. There was, he rationalized, no reason he couldn't pace and read at the same time._

_- - -_

Dear Dad,  
I need your help. You see there's a kid here who is afraid of broomsticks. Actually, he seems to be pretty much afraid of everything. But broomsticks more than most other things. I asked him what was wrong but all he said was 'You wouldn't understand' and then he ran off back to the cabin. How can I get him to talk to me? I mean if I don't understand then I can't help and if I can't help then there's no point in me being here in the first place.

Actually give me pretty much every tip you can think of on teaching kids to fly. It might make basic flight training easier for when I'm with all the other kids. I mean the only brats that are vaguely tolerable are the ones in my cabin but I guess I still need to do my best with the others.

I know this is a short letter but I figured that you had to be pretty busy just now, with work and everything (not that I'm fishing for details), so I'll write you a longer one, pestering you for yet more advice, later on. And I'll also pester you for Quidditch results (hint, hint).

Love you, Miss you, Am still taller than you and feel the need to remind you of this fact,

Your son,  
James.

**-**

**Dear Son,  
I really don't know what to tell you, except that you need to gain this boy's trust and somehow become his confidante. If he genuinely had a bad experience with flying then it's a miracle he's even there if you ask me. Which I suppose you are doing as it's the entire point of your letter.**

**And as much as I would love to give you tips on dealing with insufferable brats, the only kid I ever taught how to fly was you. While I realise this gives me great insight into insufferable brats, you were a natural flier.**

**You're right though, I am busy at work. The Ministry, in all it's wisdom, has once again decided that Voldemort is not an immediate threat to their position and whilst he is a 'growing concern' he is not to be treated as a serious threat.**

**You would have thought that after all that business with Gindlewald they would have realised that ignoring a problem does not make it go away. It simply gives it time to grow stronger. Ask your mother, yesterday she had to deal with someone who had been suffering spattergroit for seventeen years but had "hoped it would go away on it's own". **

**Idiot.**

**There have only been two games of Quidditch played since your departure:**

**- Magpies vs. Cannons lasted ten minutes. Final score was 190 - 10 (to the Magpies, naturally)**

**- Harpies vs. Tornados lasted a day and a half, Final score was 2180 - 2190, that was one hell of a game son. The Harpies lost it but they were clearly the better team. Also, the Harpies captain wounded four of the Tornados players which was quite entertaining since they were all huge Quidditch players and she weighs just under a hundred pounds.**

**Love you too, miss you, is still able to go where he wants and do what he wants without reporting to some cheerful git in Quidditch robes, and feels the need to remind YOU of this fact,  
**

**Yours,  
**

**James Potter, the elder and handsomer.**

_- - -_

_Harry frowned and sat back down at the desk. Was every letter here a desperate plea for advice? Surely the Quidditch camp wasn't so bad that he needed this much help?_

_On the other hand, Harry knew how awkward it could be to write a letter to someone you were used to talking to in person. He was also quite aware of how little a person had to say when they were stuck somewhere the person they were writing to didn't understand. Several of his summer letters to Ron were centred wholly around homework. Not because he didn't have anything else to talk about but rather because he didn't have anything else to talk about that Ron could possibly understand._

_With a shrug he returned the letter to the notebook and grabbed the next one. This letter, he felt, was the definition of "Nothing to say"._

_- - -_

Dear Wormtail,  
I thought you should know that I made Sirius look out work to help you with your Transfiguration homework so you just need to ask him for it and he'll give it to you. Also, there's a potions book in there with extra notes.  
Prongs.

**-**

**Dear Prongs,  
Thanks! I've been working on that potions essay for days and I couldn't do a thing! How did you know I'd need help? Oh and Sirius is missing you terribly, he keeps on snarling at me. Though I suppose he normally does that anyway but he's doing it more and more. And Remus has spent all summer reading books! He never gets a chance to do that if you're here to keep him company. Oh, I need to stop writing now, mum's calling me for dinner. BYE!  
Wormtail.**

_- - -_

_Harry re-read the letter several times but no, that really was all it said. These people were supposedly best friends? He shook his head and seized a slightly more promising looking note._

_- - -_

Dear Moony,  
Hey mate. Bet you're having the time of your life without me there to drag you away from your books right? Ah well, you knew you couldn't get rid of me forever, so I decided to start pestering you via post before you got too comfortable with all the peace and quiet.

Now, certain morons in this Encampment-O-Doom have decided to put me in a position of authority - not a good idea, I'm sure you'll agree -, I have been in this position of authority for all of two days and have already managed to give small children nightmares. And I mean this literally.

I told them the same thing that Arthur Weasley told us in first year about the Bloody Baron. You remember how we spent the entire night huddled on Sirius's bed, cursing anything that moved? Well it turns out that people younger than eleven respond even worse to it. Who'd have thought?

So if you know of any nice, non-horrific horror stories that I can use to keep the little brats happy then I would be very much happy to hear them. In fact if you have any weather forecasts then I'd be happy to hear THEM. Because, you see, I'm bored. And everybody here who is about my age is annoyingly cheerful. And there's some prat called McLaggen who is trying to intimidate me which, while it would normally be extremely amusing, is just plain irritating right now. Since Sirius's advice would be to turn him into a sea turtle I've decided to tell you about this little problem of mine as well, just to ensure that if someone DOES attack and kill McLaggen around here you can tell the nice people at the ministry that it was probably me.

Please, Merlin and Agrippa, write back and tell me every single thing that has happened to you in the past week. I mean everything. Down to breakfast foods. Seriously.

Yours, desperately,

James

**-**

**Dear Prongs,  
Wow, you actually signed a letter to me with your real name for once. I'm impressed. Enclosed with this letter is a book of muggle 'ghost' stories that my mother liked when she was young. She assures me that it's all pretty tame and she added that "with you and your friends history at school the entire book probably amounts to a tame Thursday night".**

**So I think you'll be safe with it.**

**Also, I would like to mention that I never had a chance to get comfortable with the peace and quiet in the first place, as Sirius has been visiting far more than usual. He is also starting to mutter darkly whenever someone mentions your current location, so I would appreciate it if you wrote him a letter the length of a small novel, just to keep him going.**

**I swear to Merlin, when you two are on the same continent again I'm making you see other people. This level of attachment is not healthy behaviour for adolescents.**

**The weather, since your departure, has been atrocious. I have spent most of the time huddled indoors muttering at the howling winds while trying to hear Sirius's rants and ramblings. On second thoughts maybe it's a good thing I can't hear him.**

**He's cursed Peter twice already. The first time was because he kept on humming and the second time was because he suggested that you'd have a good time in Australia. Not to worry though, he healed pretty quickly. And now I think I'd better go since I just heard a loud bang followed by Sirius swearing.  
**

**Yours, amusedly,  
**

**Remus.  
**

**P.S. I've had cereal for breakfast every day this week except the first Sunday home -when Mum made me a full breakfast- and this morning -when she made pancakes to keep Sirius happy-. I hope this makes you feel much more enlightened and able to deal with the stress of your situation.**

_- - -_

_Harry snorted at the postscript. It struck him as a very Lupin-ish thing to say, though he wasn't sure why he found that so amusing._

_However Sirius's treatment of Peter Pettigrew, combined with James's obvious lack of anything constructive to say to him, made Harry wonder just why exactly they were friends with the boy in the first place._

_He put away Remus's letter and looked at the remaining envelopes. One was quite small, another was absolutely huge and the last appeared to get pride of place amongst the rest. Harry closed his eyes and picked one randomly._

_The shortest letter was apparently the one. A quick look at the contents of the envelope told him that the letter was from Hagrid. He opened it and started reading enthusiastically._

_- - -_

Hiya Hagrid,

What can I say mate? I found myself in a country populated by deadly, poisonous, and terrifying insects, arachnids, and non-specific beasts, and I thought of you.

Since you somehow seem to know more about what's going on around there than anyone else (except maybe Dumbledore) I also decided to bug you for information on the goings on around Hogwarts. We all know, for example, that when the students are away Madam Pince and Filch decide to play. But I'd still like the information direct from the Hagrid's mouth. Blame Sirius, I swear I never came up with that phrase, it was him.

Oh and I was also wondering if you were having any headway in finding that dog. You know and I know that you need a dog. Dogs are brilliant and you should get one. And before you even think it, no I won't stop annoying you about it until you get one. I'm prepared to keep this up for years.

Write back pronto

James Potter, a.k.a. that git with glasses who keeps turning up in the Forbidden Forest for no apparent reason

**-**

**Dear James,  
**

**Yeah I heard you'd been sent to that Australian Camp after what you did to Mister Black. How many times do I have to tell you not to go round cursing people Potter? And anyway, Australian creatures aren't terrifying, they're fascinating.**

**I don't have anything to tell you about what's going on around Hogwarts either, but I did hear a rumour that might affect you quite a bit next year. Can't say too much though. And when do you plan on dropping that theory of yours about Pince and Filch anyway?**

**And now that you mention it, a friend of mine has a boarhound who's carrying a litter. Maybe I'll take one of them. Any ideas for names?**

**I'd write more but the rock cakes are ready,  
**

**Have fun, Hagrid.**

_- - -_

_Harry had read the letter several times before he decided to actually put it down._

_James Potter had the same theory about Pince and Filch that he himself had. That was surprising. Particularly since most people thought he was out of his mind to suggest such a thing. Granted, he mostly used that theory to wind up Hermione or the Weasley twins but that wasn't the point._

_It was also apparent that his father had been instrumental in Hagrid's acquisition of Fang. Or perhaps a relative of his since he didn't think that Fang was that old. _

"_I did hear a rumour that might affect you quite a bit", surely he was talking about becoming Head Boy? What else would he be talking about?_

_Harry didn't even look up this time when Uncle Vernon shouted out to him. "What are you-"_

"_Writing a letter!" Harry cut him off impatiently._

"_What, another one?" Uncle Vernon asked dubiously._

"_Yeah, _they're_ really paranoid." Harry deadpanned. As expected, Vernon didn't pick up on the subtle insinuation. All he did was grunt and walk off. Harry, for his part, just shook his head in irritation and grabbed the gigantic letter from the notebook. It was, as he'd suspected it would be, to and from Sirius._

_- - -_

Dear Sirius,  
I am so BORED!

I mean there's so much to do and yet there's absolutely nothing to do. All of the kids here (except the ones in my cabin) are completely impossible to deal with and hardly any of them can fly worth a damn anyway. Then there's this one kid that seems to be a female Remus if you ask me.

Except she scowls like you used to and probably looks more like you. Black hair, disturbing eyes, ability to glare on behalf of her country, etc,. Her name is Sofia and she won't fly around anyone else. Or talk. Or blink excessively or throw things or eat or anything. All she does is glower, read, glower some more and roll her eyes a lot. How on Earth do I get this kid to talk? I figured you'd be the one to ask since before my oh-so-beneficial influence you were pretty much the same… except you didn't read. You swore at people. (Kidding!)

There's this other one who's scared of broomsticks. How do I train someone who's afraid of broomsticks to play Quidditch? It's impossible.

That's not even half of it. There are the other counsellors for one thing. Some Swedish guy called Arvid is the only one I find tolerable, and that's because he mutters a lot and hates everyone.

The only girl around my age is called Amy, she's from South Africa and she's out of her tiny little mind. She keeps batting her eyes at me and acting like I'm the second coming or something. Daft bint. She's practically stalking me you know, and I can't get rid of her. All I can think is that Evans would make her cry within about five seconds of meeting her just because she's so bloody clueless. And we all know Evans can't stand idiocy. And speaking of idiocy!

Do you remember some guy called McLaggen going to school with us last year? He says he was in Gryffindor but I don't remember him. And people tend to remember a neck like that on a guy. Or rather a lack of neck like that. He's a smug git, keeps on talking about how brilliant a flier he is. Personally I don't see much brilliance, in fact I'm fairly certain Snape could fly better than him. And he's in love with the South African chit and apparently sees me as "competition". Moron.

I can't believe that someone so inept at flying, so innately idiotic and so plainly behind on the evolutionary scale was actually allowed to come here to teach younger generations.

Maybe "Uncle Seth" (as we're supposed to call the lunatic who runs this place) was drinking a bit much that night. Did I mention Uncle Seth?

Seth Jefferson is this insanely happy freak who bounces around all day and yet doesn't seem to actually DO anything. And he's got this annoying wispy beard thing that makes him look like a goblin. And not the nice kind either. Oh and he calls me 'little buddy'. "How's it going there little buddy?" "You feeling good today little buddy?" "What are you doing standing over me in the middle of the night with that hatchet little buddy?" Stuck up prat. Don't know who the hell he thinks he is.

Then there's the actual flying itself. I never thought that being on a broomstick could be so dull! The average days lesson is like "Okay kiddies now fly fifty feet in the air. Now land again. Now do that again and this time try not to fall off your broom." I mean I know they're young and new at flying but the fact remains that they should be better at this than they actually are.

I can't believe that idiot judge actually subjected me to this. He only did it because we turned his nephew blue a couple of years ago. Did you hear is ruling? "This incident combined with other questionable actions on your part over the years". Like he never pulled a prank or two on anyone? Aye right.

And that's all just the people. I haven't even started on the place.

It's like living in an oven around here, everything is roasting hot. They told me I'd get used to it after a couple of days but so far I'm not used to a bloody thing. And we can't even take proper showers. We have exactly three minutes of water before it turns off. Apparently water needs to be rationed. Why! They ARE wizards aren't they? Would a quick "Aguamenti" here and there kill them?

The food is deplorable. The brooms are annoying and all the kids who aren't in my cabin are, frankly, snot nosed brats.

Particularly the girls. There are only six girls in the whole place (other than Sofia and Amy) and they just giggle a lot and talk about the pretty patterns the clouds make. Why they're even here is beyond me.

And last but not least, the accommodations are terrible! I'm staying in this stupid little cabin that is little more than a hut (not the Hagrid type or anything, the bad kind). And I have to share it with four kids, one of whom suffers night terrors. I have this "private" area which consists of the most uncomfortable bed on the planet and a desk. Oh, and I have to go three cabins down to get to the showers and toilets. I swear in the name of all things good and right in the world; Hell is a place on Earth and it's name is The Little Champions International Quidditch Camp.

And guess what?

When I get back home, two days before term starts, I'll still have all my homework to do. Spec-bloody-tacular.

Yours, the soon to be infamous, James "Quidditch spree-killer" Potter.

**-**

**Dear Prongs,  
YOU'RE bored? What about me?**

**Not that the hell-hole you're in doesn't sound awful, it does, but spare a thought for the rest of us as well mate.**

**Your parents are great, they are. But do you have any idea how annoying Wormtail gets when you aren't there to take care of him? And Remus is trying to read all the time, the weather is too crap to play Quidditch with anyone and the most interesting thing that's happened in the past week is that I met Evans on Diagon Alley. Which I know will make you really jealous but for me is fairly average.**

**Oh and about the South African bird who's in love with you? Why don't you engage her in a two hour conversation about the colour of Lily Evans hair? That certainly made it clear to the rest of us that you weren't going to be dating anyone else in the near future.**

**McLaggen did go to school with us but not last year. He quit after OWLs. Remember Bertha Jorkins telling us about some guy who'd had a nervous breakdown in the middle of his Transfiguration exam, started singing Jingle Bells at the top of his voice, upturned his desk on a Hufflepuff girl's head and attached himself to the examiner's leg screaming "Mummy"? Well, guess who.**

**As for the joker in charge of that place, if you're actually calling him Uncle Seth then I'm disowning you as my best friend.**

**Now onto my sage advice part of the letter. The kid that's afraid of flying but won't talk? Well just because he won't talk doesn't mean he won't yell. If you get into a screaming match with him and call him a coward for not flying he'll probably deny it and then you can cut in with the great, original line "Well then why won't you fly?" He'll probably spill the beans. If not then I'm out of ideas.**

**The Remus-ette is completely out of my normal range of manipulation. Maybe you should just start annoying her until she finally snaps and tells you to shut up. After that first sentence or two things can only get easier, right? After all, that's how we got Moony to talk on the train.**

**Well, I've got to go now. There are certain measures being taken to keep you occupied while you're over there and one of them is about to be taken. Don't interpret this wrongly James, I expect another obscenely long letter next week too.  
**

**Yours, the soon to be the only living person treated for rigor mortis, Sirius Black.**

_  
- - -_

_Harry's only clear thought was "Whoa! That's a long rant!"_

_Apparently James did have a lot to say. And apparently he knew exactly who he wanted to say it to. Harry ignored any emotional response he had to his father his godfather's easy and comfortable exchange and focused instead on the fact that he had yet another person to add to the "List of People who died needlessly because of Voldemort"._

_Bertha Jorkins. He'd forgotten Sirius knew her. He'd also forgotten the fact that if Sirius knew her at school then his father would probably have known her too. The girl was cursed, tortured, anti-cursed and then, eventually, killed… It wasn't exactly a happy tale. _

_However there was one thing that made Harry happy. McLaggen was doomed._

_The story of THAT particular breakdown was still retold at Hogwarts. In fact it was widely considered one of the best all-round exam stories known to Hogwarts students. People either told it in a joking sense ("Hey, no matter how bad it gets at least you won't start calling the examiner Mummy") or they told it as a horror tale ("Do you know what these exams do to people? There was this one guy…"). It occurred to Harry that Cormac McLaggen must have worked hard to keep his connection to that tale quiet, otherwise Harry was almost certain that there would have been someone even more famous than himself at Hogwarts._

_He turned the page to the last letter. This one apparently got it's very own page because it was so special. It was thinner than the other envelopes which was because, he soon realised, there was only one piece of parchment in it rather than two. Or, in the Sirius correspondence case, seven._

_He pulled out the paper and saw that it was not the normal, thick, yellowing parchment used by wizards. It was, in fact, a light green piece of regular, Muggle stationary that held a faintly exotic sort of scent to it. It wasn't, he noticed, like that hideous pink scented stuff Umbridge used. In fact this paper seemed to have been scented almost by accident rather than intention. It was also covered in astonishingly neat, spindly handwriting. A quick look at the elaborate signature at the bottom told him why James had given it pride of place._

_It was signed Lily Evans. _

_- - -_

**Potter,  
I hope you realise that I'm being forced to write this by your slightly unhinged best friend, who is sitting on my bed glaring and refuses to move until I've written you something. He also threatened to turn my sister and her fiancé into geckos. Not that I especially mind that last one but still, just so you know. And no, I don't blame you for his erratic behaviour but I firmly believe you should be utterly informed of his deranged manner as of late.**

**So I hear you're trapped in hell with lots of shiny, happy people? From what I was able to discern from the madman's mutterings one of the aforementioned shiny happy people is none other than our very own Duane McLaggen.**

**Do me a favour and mention my name to him, just to see how he reacts? Oh and if he starts talking about some fighter jet or something then kindly remind him that it wasn't a fighter jet, it was a sparrow. And he wasn't two weeks old or whatever rubbish he's spreading around now: He was thirteen.**

**And if a girl isn't talking to you she either has a crush on you (unlikely) or she did something wrong and feels guilty. Or perhaps she's mute and everyone just forgot to mention it.**

**According to the nutcase in the corner I have now written an acceptable amount to be permitted to leave my own room. He's such a gentleman isn't he? By the way Potter, be sure to tell your little friend that I'm cursing him into oblivion just as soon as we get back to school.**

**(Quite emphatically not) Yours, Lily Evans.**

_- - -_

_So that had been what Sirius meant when he'd said "certain measures". _

_Harry couldn't help but chuckle slightly as he imagined Sirius threatening the Dursleys and resolutely refusing to move from his mother's bed until she wrote to his father. Her comments about McLaggen were hardly sombre either. And, he supposed, you couldn't help but respect the way she managed to deftly insult James without actually insulting him._

_He slid the pale green sheet of paper away and decided that he might as well actually write some of those letters he kept telling the Dursleys he was writing. After that he'd probably get something to eat._

_But even as he did these things, the notebook and it's subsequent entries still pulled at his curiosity._

* * *

**Other Note: I'll be honest, this is sort of a boring chapter up until the last couple of letters. Or it is in my opinion anyway. But it had to be done because if I'd ignored the letters completely then people would have asked "Why is no one trying to cheer him up!" Besides, this way I got to write insane Sirius and irritated Lily which is fun for me.**


	5. Ode to, and from, stalkers

(Oh. For those of you who are interested, there really was a guy in my Primary school called "Justin Case". Insufferable little pillock he was too. And, I assume, still is even if I haven't seen him in ages. Anyway, for seven years I was the only person who found his name funny. No one else understood why. Typical really.)

And no, Harry Potter still isn't mine. For the record.

* * *

Quidditch Journal  
Entry 6  
July 18th

Dear Thing,

EVANS WROTE TO ME! EVANS WROTE TO ME! EVANS WROTE TO ME!

Oh yeah, so did everyone else. But the point is EVANS WROTE TO ME! Granted she did it at wand-point but I choose not to focus on that particular nuance of the situation and rather focus on the fact that she did, in fact, write to me. Did I mention that she wrote to me? Because I think that should be made clear. Evans, as in Lily Marie Evans, born on the thirty-first of August and aged sixteen at the time of writing, wrote to me.

Ah Lily Evans. Lovely girl.

Wants me dead, but she's still lovely. And gorgeous, intelligent, witty, talented, kind, happy, gorgeous… I'm repeating myself. Oh well. She is gorgeous though. Big green eyes, long red hair, creamy skin, a glare that could kill a man at ten paces. Perfection. And she's really good at insulting people too, or at least at insulting me. She signed her letter "Quite emphatically not yours, Lily Evans" which cheered me up to no end.

She loathes and detests me you see. Always has and probably always will but I don't care because I adore her. How could anyone do anything but adore her? Anyway, she's extremely stubborn about refusing to go out with me. I've also sort of come to the conclusion that me asking her on an hourly basis won't change that fact, so I haven't asked her out since Christmas. A huge feat for yours truly, requiring such phenomenal levels of self-restraint that it almost killed me. After all, it's Lily Evans.

First time I met her was on the Hogwarts Express. She was shorter than everyone else (and probably still is) because she'd only turned eleven the previous day. Dumbledore apparently gave her a choice between starting that year or the next but she chose that year because she wanted to learn as much magic as possible as soon as possible. She'd already learned half the syllabus by the time she got on the train because she was so interested.

Ah Evans. Never get tired of that girl. She cursed Bellatrix Black you know. She was in seventh year, Evans was in first year and she called her a "Mudblood". Evans said she didn't know what it meant but that "she didn't particularly like being called it by an inbred lunatic". So she made her grow thick purple fur everywhere. Deeply amusing. Our dear Bellatrix had to miss three days of classes for that and people were calling her the Lilac Hairball for months.

Evans, Evans, Evans. She's got a good name too. "Lily Evans", who doesn't love lilies hmm? Well I never used to. But I do now. So terribly wise of her parents to name her after something of great beauty. Pity about her sister though. But then I only met her sister once. Daft bint.

She was "escorting" Lily to Diagon Alley for her school supplies. So far as I could tell that meant glaring at everyone and calling them freaks of nature while repeatedly telling Lily that it wasn't "too late to enrol in a proper school and live life like a normal person". Apparently Sirius's comment about what a great loss that would be to Wizarding kind didn't go down well with her. I think her name was Petal or something, sticking with the flower theme. No, wait… It was… Think James, think!

PETUNIA! That was it. Petunia Evans. Horse faced cow. Quite plainly doesn't deserve to have a sister as wonderful as Evans. She's actually quite an aberration anyway. Nobody related to Lily Evans could be that unattractive without some severe genetic flaws and nobody related to Lily Evans could be that close-minded without a few serious brainwashing sessions. Apparently Sirius threatened to turn her into a gecko. Too good for her in my opinion but it doesn't matter.

The point is that Evans wrote to me. And now I have to write back. And I don't know what to say.

What is there to say? "_Yeah hello Lily, just to say that I'm really very pleased my best friend threatened you and your family because it means I get to communicate with you_." I don't see that making her like me much more, do you?

It's about midnight you realise. I've just been staying up re-reading that letter of hers. Which smells just like her by the way. Ginger with lime and brown sugar. I have no earthly idea how she ends up smelling like that because none of the taps, not even in the prefects bathroom, give out anything smelling of ginger, lime OR brown sugar, but she does and it's delectable. And her hair, I haven't spoken about that yet have I?

Her hair, it's brilliant. It's fire engine red, reaches down past her shoulders and falls in these beautiful waves… Sirius was right. I do practically stalk the girl. I should stop that, really. Not so much for my mental well-being (I'm perfectly happy to obsess over Lily Evans till my dying day thank you very much), but rather her emotional well-being. I fear she may lose her mind and attack me soon. Which I wouldn't mind to be honest. I can think of worse ways to go than having Lily Evans go mental and rip me to shreds…

But I still have to write something to her. It's only polite. So what do I write?

Hmmm. This'll take a lot of thought. I'll probably stay up half night thinking about this you realise. I always end up over-thinking things when it comes to Lily Evans. Which is stupid really because no matter what I do I'll come across as an arrogant prat but hey, a bloke's got to try doesn't he?

Well, if my time studying to become Prongs has taught me anything it's that you can't pore over notes without tea. And if my time being Remus Lupin's best mate has taught me anything, it's how to produce tea and chocolate seemingly from nowhere.

I wonder if I'll actually be sleeping at all tonight?

- - -

_Harry smirked. The great James Potter, it seemed, could quite easily be reduced to a gibbering wreck by nothing more than the _scent_ of Lily Evans. That was, to him, terribly amusing. As was his father's rather apt description of Aunt Petunia._

_He wondered how long it would take for James to actually do something right so that Lily would notice him as something other than a cocky git. Actually he wondered if that hadn't already occurred since, to him at least, nothing in Lily's letter spoke of any particular feelings of animosity. It spoke more of a habitual sort of contempt._

_He was also oddly pleased that his mother had cursed Bellatrix Lestrange (nee, Black) at the age of eleven. It didn't begin to cover the multitude of offences Lestrange had caused him, but it made him feel a little better._

_Turning the page slowly, Harry silently made a bet with himself about whether James would be able to go a whole hundred words without mentioning the name Lily Evans. Harry was betting he wouldn't manage it, but even he was surprised at just how right he was._

_- - -_

Quidditch Journal  
Entry 7  
July 19th

Dear Thing,  
Lily Evans is impossible to write to. I was up half the night and I still couldn't come up with anything. Then Iggy woke me up at four AM because he had to go to the bathroom and was scared to go alone.

Normally I'd be angry at such levels of nervousness in a kid his age but apparently Justin Case has decided to start getting up early in the morning and hiding out in the bathrooms. He then pounces on anyone who goes in and stuffs a dungbomb, or something equally unpleasant, down their trousers. Quite clearly a desperate cry for attention either from his parents or from the counsellors, I'm sure you'll agree.

Well the little berk will certainly be getting attention now. I charmed his forehead to read the words 'Spoilt Brat' in big flashing letters. Seth Jefferson says that this was an extreme response but "no doubt my fierce loyalty to my charges impaired my judgement and so I cannot be held accountable". I wasn't in the mood to argue with him on that particular point, so I kept my mouth shut.

I'm also Iggy's hero. Which is sort of fun, I admit. I'm trying to convince him of my spectacular medicinal knowledge so that in a few days, when I spring mum's potion on him, he'll actually consider taking it rather than throwing it back at me and accusing me of trying to poison him. Which is, if I'm honest, what I'd do in his position. But then, I've been accused of being paranoid.

In other news, Albert is starting to calm down. And by calm down I mean he's no longer jumping six feet in the air at loud noises but is still highly strung. Very highly strung. I keep getting the urge to stick a warning sign around his neck. Something like "Caution: addition of caffeine will result in instant paroxysm."

Ping is actually getting healthier I've noticed. Not by much I'll grant you but he can participate in class for a bit longer than he could when he first got here. I've also started using mum's suggestion about sneakily making him exercise and he doesn't seem to have noticed yet.

And then there's Sofia. The girl is impossible. I still quite like her though, it has to be said. When Justin Case was screaming threats at me ("My father's going to get you for this!" "Just you wait!" "I'll see you're locked up for this you big jerk!"… What does that even mean? 'You sir! You are a large jolt!' What the hell? I don#t understand American insults), Sofia rolled her eyes impatiently and stood with her hands on her hips glaring at him. He finally cottoned on and yelled at her "And what the hell are you looking at Morticia?" Her only response was to sigh, shake her head and storm past him being sure to kick his feet out from under him as she went. He landed on his arse.

It was brilliant. But when Albert commented on it later she just scowled at him and then refused to look up from her book for the rest of the morning. She's on a new book by the way. This one's called 'Cliodna, the Forgotten Healer'. The grand sum of my knowledge on Cliodna comes from Chocolate Frog cards so I can't really comment.

I think our Albert has a bit of a crush on her. Maybe it's the fact that while he's bouncing off the walls, she's hardly deigned to blink so far. Opposites attract and all that. I got a bit of life out of her last night though, with Remus's ghost stories.

There was some claptrap about a Headless Horseman that would have made Nick go nuts. Apparently she found it amusing. She smirked slightly. When I told her about Nearly Headless Nick she could have, I swear, giggled under her breath. I'd call that progress wouldn't you?

In other news, I killed Amy the Nutcase… tomorrow. She's driving me bonkers. So is McLaggen but he was preoccupied today with Justin Case (who is in his cabin) and so he isn't bothering me as much.

I took Sirius's advice and told Amy how terribly in love I am with Lily Evans. She said that Lily clearly wasn't the girl for me and that I needed to start dating as soon as possible to get over her. Can't the girl take a hint?

It's getting late. I need to go to dinner. Tonight's special is Cornish Pasties… Made with real corn apparently. I think someone rather misunderstood what a Cornish pasty was, don't you?

- - -

_Harry snorted. It was, he had to admit, fairly amusing to see James complaining about being stalked after his little ode to Lily Evans. Even more so since James didn't seem to notice the irony._

_It was also quite startling to see how fiercely loyal and protective the man was without even realising it. Not to mention how involved he was with the children he was taking care of. Not for the first time, Harry wondered how different his life would have been if his mother and father had survived. After all, any girl deserving of that much adoration from Sirius and Lupin, that much garbled rambling from James Potter and that much outright hatred from Petunia Dursley struck Harry as being pretty cool._

_And speaking of hatred from Petunia Dursley…_

"_I hope you realise that just because your writing to those freaks of yours doesn't mean that you get excused from everything around here mister! You'd better get down here and peel these potatoes for dinner for one thing. If you're eating in this house then you'd better contribute!" came his Aunt's shrill voice._

_Harry, who had spent the first ten years of his life peeling mountains of potatoes on an almost daily basis, didn't really mind having to do as his Aunt asked. What he did mind was the fact that the entry he'd just been about to start read as follows:_

Quidditch Journal  
Entry 8  
July 20th

Dear thing,

I AM GOING TO KILL DUANE MCLAGGEN!

_Harry sighed. "Coming Aunt Petunia." he called. He got to his feet and trundled out the room, trying not to wonder what was in the next entry…_


	6. Opening Warfare

**Disclaimer part**: You know the drill.

_

* * *

Harry rinsed the last dish and placing it carelessly onto the drying rack. "Good. Now you can-" Aunt Petunia started._

"_Nope, sorry. Can't." Harry stated simply, hurrying past Petunia brashly and ducking out into the hall without sending her so much as a second glance. He leapt the stairs three at a time, meeting Dudley in the landing._

"_Hey what're you-" Dudley snapped. Harry shoved is cousin out of the way and continued sprinting back to his room. He threw open the door, shuffled inside and slammed the door shut again behind him. He resisted the urge to charm a couple of locks onto it, knowing that his relationship with the Improper Use of Magic office was still strenuous at best. Even if Umbridge had sent Dementors after him and Dobby had been accepted as responsible for his earlier misdemeanour, they continued to regard him with a less-than-enthusiastic air. And he couldn't honestly blame them, really._

_He collapsed into the chair at his desk with a fairly audible 'thud', and dragged his father's diary over to him. He scanned the pages and quickly resumed reading…_

- - -

Quidditch Journal  
Entry 8  
July 20th

Dear thing,

I AM GOING TO KILL DUANE MCLAGGEN!

That stupid, idiotic, block-headed dolt! Who the hell does he think he is? He's declared war. Can you believe that? Duane McLaggen, the thickest gimp the world has ever known, has declared war on _me_.

Okay. I'm calming down. I'll explain what happened. But first of all you should understand that I am writing this late at night, in the Medi-Hut where the kids in my cabin are currently sleeping off the effects of some rather strong Babbling Beverages that left them gibbering fools for the better part of the night. (On the up side I found out that Sofia isn't mute and actually knows an impressive selection of both English and Bulgarian swear words.)

This morning I got up and found McLaggen waiting for me outside my cabin. He wanted to talk about the growing rivalry between our two cabins. Or so he said. I agreed (grudgingly, might I add) and went outside with him. He then turns around and tells me that I'd better watch my back because he "knows what I'm up to" and that if I didn't cut it out we "were going to have a problem". Do you believe that? HE tells ME to watch myself? Doesn't he realise who he's talking to here? And then to threaten me… Merlin, how dumb can you be? Does he honestly think I'm going to take that crap from the likes of him?

Well apparently he did because as soon as he was finished saying it he sauntered off without waiting for a response. Not that I could have responded mind you: I was either gaping at thin air or laughing too hard to really think of a comeback. However that's not the point. No, the point is that when I went back into my cabin I found three of my kids with lime green hair. They didn't manage to get Sofia. Though that may have been because she had one of McLaggen's kids pinned against the wall by his throat while Iggy, Albert and Ping were yelling "Kill, kill, kill!"

Now I was going to let it go. Really, I was. I was going to tell Sofia to put the boy down and let him go back to his cabin with the message that I knew what he was doing and that I wasn't interested in a full scale war with him over this… then that little runt hit Sofia. He just reared back and decked her I got rid of the bruise, no problem (thereby increasing Iggy's view of me as some great healer I suppose). However the fact remains that you don't hit girls. You especially don't hit girls half your size.

I grabbed the little tosser by the back of the neck and dragged him outside, apparently forgetting that my wand even existed. I can't remember the exact message I gave the kid to give to McLaggen however I do remember that it had quite a few explicit suggestions for him mixed in there, along with several turns of phrase that no child should really hear… And there may have been a goat involved somewhere, I'm not really sure. ANYWAY ,I do believe that McLaggen will have caught my gist.

And once I turned all my kids' hair back to its original colour, I filled them in. I suppose you can't help but admire how gung-ho they were about the whole thing, seeing as how there are only four of them vs. six of the McLaggen cabin kids. And the McLaggen kids are, to a man, larger and stronger than them. Which is a huge deal when you're still in single digits and unable to do any magic whatsoever. Well… any planned magic, I suppose.

So we all went to breakfast. Looking cheerful as ever, you know, like nothing happened and we couldn't care less. It was immediately obvious (to me anyway) that everyone knew about it, but there was no point in making a scene. So we sat down, had breakfast, glared across the room at the McLaggen camp and then went for a day's flying.

I would like to say at this point that I am more than prepared to keep a vendetta alive for decades if need be, and feel absolutely no twinges of conscious for doing so. But even I have scruples. One of those scruples is that, if I were teaching a kid to fly and he fell off his broom, I would attempt to catch him regardless of the kid's place in said feud. That just strikes me as a given.

But no.

When Ping fell off his broom directly in front of McLaggen he didn't do anything. The stupid prick didn't even blink. I had to cast an Impediment Jinx on Ping from across the compound to stop him being seriously hurt. What sort of inconsiderate, cold-hearted bastard DOES that? The kid is eight years old for crying out loud! And his only crime was being associated with me. That was it, nothing else. He's in my cabin ergo, McLaggen doesn't care. What a prat. I was going to get him good just for that. But it doesn't stop there.

Most of the day passed with very little activity, just a few glares. Then Iggy went missing. I don't even know how that happened. We were all practising by our cabin and I was trying to teach Albert how to hold a beater's bat and maintain balance at the same time. I looked around and Iggy was gone.

He turned up an hour later, stripped down to his underwear and standing in the kitchens. If Ping hadn't been intelligent enough to point out that the entrance to the kitchens was hidden from view then none of us would have looked there and he would've been found by the cooks.

Then we went to dinner. I was, at this point, merely planning battle strategies and trying to calm Ping and Iggy down. Which is when we discovered the Babbling Beverages in out food. Or at least the kids did. I wasn't eating, I was trying to decide whether Evans would send me a couple of potions if I asked nicely and said it was for McLaggen.

They started babbling (duh) and then they start panicking. Panicked young children under the influences of Babbling Beverages is not a good thing. They start screaming about teddy bears and boogie men: It's not pleasant. I practically had to drag the four of them to the Medi-Hut. What's even more irritating is that McLaggen had obviously planned this from yesterday and only mentioned it today. I, at least, give my victims a bit of warning before striking. You know, some time to brace themselves and maybe come up with a defence or two. It's only sporting.

So that's it. No holds barred. It's war. I've cancelled all my other letters to everyone (including that one to Evans that took four hours to write) and I am now demanding reinforcements from everyone who can help.

Mum and Dad won't be contacted I don't think. Anything they know about this will only lead to punishments in the future and, frankly, I have a battle to plan and therefore no time for such things. Remus, Sirius and perhaps Evans will all be valuable. Hagrid will have recommendations. Wormtail will… offer words of encouragement. That idiot is going to suffer for this.

Oh an by the way, we're going to kick his arse at Quidditch too.

- - -

_Harry cringed._

_Surely it wouldn't be that bad. Whatever happened would have almost positively been mentioned to him at some point if it had been as bad as James was implying it would be… wouldn't they?_

_Trying to convince himself of that fact, Harry turned the page…_

_- - -_

Quidditch Journal  
Entry 8  
July 20th

Dear Thing,  
There's good news and bad news. The first thing is that I made McLaggen cry. The second thing is that I wasn't really trying very hard, and so I therefore fear that what he's got in store over the next few weeks will irreparably damage him.

I'm not sure which one of those is the good news and which one of those is the bad news. Maybe it's just news. Who knows? The point is that it was easy. All I did was interrupt his little story this morning about how outstanding he was in classes with Sirius's little story about him in his Transfiguration OWL. Then Amy, Arvid and one or two other people made fun of him and he completely over-reacted and then ran screaming out of the room.

He's been a no-show all day since that little episode at breakfast so I can only assume he's plotting something sinister. Not that I care.

I'm saving all the good stuff for post-Thursday warfare after I've got contact with my patrons back home.

Meanwhile, I got Albert practising with Bludgers. He still won't go on a broomstick mind you but hey, progress is progress. Ping is getting healthier and Iggy is becoming more and more confident of my non-existent medical knowledge. My only problem is Sofia. She's run out of books and is now just glaring. She started talking at least, if that's what you call the fifteen second conversations we've had. Most of them go something like "Hello" "Hello" "Are you all right?" nod "You've stopped babbling I see?" nod "Would you like me to shut up and go away now?" nod

Merlin, I don't know what I'm supposed to do. And my normal default position when I don't know what to do is either to ask Sirius (which I've already done) or plan pranks. So I'm off to do that now. Circe knows it's more fun that this.

- - -

_Harry skimmed over the next few pages. Nothing was written out properly, it was just notes and diagrams. In fact the next real entry didn't appear for six pages._

_What worried him slightly was the fact that several diagrams included a small stick-figure with no noticeable neck and quite obviously blacked out eyes… _

Remember: Anyone has anything they want done to McLaggen, email me -wink-. Or James I suppose if you really hate him for some reason. But I doubt you'd be reading this if you _really_ hated James. I'll be putting both of them through quite a lot anyway but hey, a little more gas on the flame never hurt anybody, right? Right? -kicks audience- RIGHT! Okay, good.


	7. Unwelcome guests and revelations

**Announcement**: You yelled, you swore, you sent me threatening emails, you threatened to set my dog on fire, you… did absolutely none of that. Nope. Not a one. You were all polite and nice and amazingly supportive. I'm just scum. Guilt-ridden scum. Ah well. I'm guilt-ridden scum who's updating, so that's something I suppose.  
Here's your new chapter. Which will be closely followed by another chapter which I'm taking a break from writing so that I can post this one. But I'll get right back to doing that again, while I continue sip my Hot Chocolate and listen to Alkaline Trio… er… I mean, while I continue to flagellate myself for not updating and survive on nothing but stale bread and water... yeah that's what I mean. Ahem. Anyway.

**Disclaimer**: JK Rowling owns Harry Potter. I am naught but a mindless drone, loitering on the World Wide Web with a story to tell and a suitable forum to tell it in...

* * *

_Harry had stopped reading. He hadn't done so for any particular reason, other than the fact that he wanted to check a few things. First off, whether Sofia Ivanova was really on the Bulgarian Quidditch team. It didn't sound like much but it was bothering him. Had he stood in the top box at the Quidditch World cup, mere metres away from the girl that his father referenced so fondly? Was his father, in fact, responsible for her being there? Had he really been within a hundred yards of someone who knew his father and HADN'T felt the need to comment on the resemblance? _

_Harry needed to know._

_And so he rummaged around in the bottom of his trunk, searching for the Programme Guide he'd purchased at the World Cup. He knew it was in there after all… somewhere. _

_He also knew that Hedwig was a week late from returning from Ron's, and that his Daily Prophet subscription wasn't arriving. But since he was more aware than most, just how paranoid Order Members and Aurors were, he wasn't too concerned. If he wasn't getting incoming mail by the end of the week then he'd throw a strop. Similarly, if Hedwig wasn't back by the end of the week he was fairly certain she'd claw someone's eyes out._

_It was nice having a pet who understood and emulated you, he'd decided._

_After about half an hour of rifling around in the deepest darkest recesses of his trunk, Harry finally found the Guide. He'd also found Lockhart's (still not even attempted) homework assignment on Cornish Pixies, three paperclips (which they didn't use at Hogwarts so how they'd got in there was entirely beyond him) and, much to his bemusement, a plectrum. But none of that was important._

_Flicking through the guide, he paused on Krum's page. Surprisingly, none of the players were wearing their Quidditch Robes, but instead were clad in what he assumed were their 'day-to-day outfits'. Krum, for example, was in his Durmstrang robes and scowling quite magnificently into the camera. He leant against the edge of the photograph with his arms folded stubbornly across his chest. It was quite amusing._

_Next to him was a basic run down of his life, his family, his game statistics and any comments players wanted to share with the world. Krum's personal comment was "Vot does it matter vot I do or don't say? I play Quidditch. That is all. Now go." Harry found this pretty apt for Viktor's character._

_He turned a few more pages before he came to Sofia Ivanova's entry._

_She was standing staring directly at the camera with one hand on her hip, and the other dangling at her side like a model. She was abnormally skinny and wore dark grey, tweed trousers and a black polo-neck with ice-pick heels that were actually quite frightening. Her jet-black hair hung down to her waist and gleamed brightly while her skin was a sallow, pale colour not unlike Snape's. Her face was more given to angles than curves, with thin lips and sharp cheekbones. Her eyes were large, and dark looking almost black from a distance._

_Her features were arranged in an expression of measured disdain, but as she saw Harry the figure in the picture cocked her head curiously. Her expression did not change, however._

_Harry wondered, vaguely, why she wore muggle clothing. Looking at her, she would not have been out of place on a London High Street. She was the only person in the entire booklet who wasn't wearing robes of some kind. She was also, now that he looked, the only female player on the Bulgarian team._

_Harry turned his attention to the information on her right. It didn't say much. She was the top goal scorer for the Vrasta Vultures and had been their star Chaser since the age of nineteen. She had been on the Bulgarian National Squad for seven years, which -since she was still only in her mid-twenties- was apparently quite remarkable. She was noted for her speed and skill, often pulling off moves which her team-mates couldn't hope to master and was often thought to be quite noticeably above her fellow Chasers in Bulgaria. At the time of publishing, there was apparently a fairly spirited battle going on between the Quiberon Quafflepunchers, the Vrasta Vultures and the Tutshill Tornados over where she would be going upon completion of her current contract. (Harry could safely say that the Tutshill Tornados had not won that battle, though he still didn't know where she'd gone.)_

_She had been raised, along with her twin brother Stefan, by her mother and her Aunts. Her father wasn't mentioned. Her unnamed husband, however, was. It mentioned that she was famously unsociable, rarely going out to celebrate with her team mates, even though she had never missed a practise in her entire career and went home to her husband every night._

_Her only comment to the interviewer was, "Leave immediately or I'll hurt you." Something Harry dearly wished he'd been able to say to Rita Skeeter without any consequences._

_He admitted that he found all this a tad more fascinating than he thought he perhaps should, but he had no way of knowing what had happened to the other members of his father's cabin. Except that, after a quick flick through the programme, that none of them were participating in the Quidditch World Cup. Harry felt oddly cheered by the notion that his father may have, in some way, helped start such a noteworthy Quidditch career._

_He was just about to pick up the Notebook once more, when a knock sounded on the door. Harry suppressed a growl._

"_Who is it?" he called in the most agreeable tone he could manage._

"_Mum says dinner's ready." Dudley told him in annoyance. It was quite clear that Dudley thought himself far above such petty matters as sharing this fact with Harry and felt entirely put upon for having to do so._

_Harry grinned. "What we having?" he called innocently._

"_Chicken Casserole." Dudley ground out in a resentful way before, quite audibly, referring to Harry as something that - -had Mrs Weasley heard him- - would have probably resulted in a pretty thorough hiding. He then, with equal obviousness, turned and walked back downstairs signalling the end of the discussion. Feeling fairly put upon himself, though for different reasons entirely, Harry got to his feet and followed his cousin downstairs for dinner. _

- - -

_Harry knew he had to eat. He knew that if he didn't then his mother and father would probably come back from the grave, haunt him and beat the living daylights out of him (or so Sirius had informed him one morning in Grimmauld Place when he'd said he hadn't been hungry). But that didn't change the fact that he'd spent all of dinner dreaming about what was in James' next entry and practically ignoring his plate._

_There was only one left before another page of letters, and Harry wasn't about to deny being curious about them too. He wanted to read Sirius's rant again. Maybe some of Lupin's dry humour. Maybe see if Evans… Er, Lily… Er… His _Mother_, had written another non-hateful hateful letter to his Father. And maybe if James and Peter had figured out something, ANYTHING, to say to one another yet._

_But Aunt Petunia seemed rather disinclined to acquiesce his desire to continue reading._

"_Clear the table Boy." she snapped irritably._

_Out of sheer habit, Harry was about to do as instructed when a thought struck him. Halfway out of his seat, with his hand still reached ridiculously out for the plates, he turned to his Aunt. "Why don't you use my name?" he asked her in a curious tone._

_The entire table turned to look at him as though he was off his rocker. Uncle Vernon in particular looked appalled. He articulated the feelings of his family with a very eloquent and engaging, "Eh?"_

"_My name." Harry repeated. "Harry James Potter. The words by which I am designated and distinguished from others. My title. My appellation. My NAME." he said very slowly, as though explaining something to a group of small children._

_Petunia appeared to genuinely consider it for a moment, while Dudley and Vernon just looked at him like he was a lunatic. "I suppose it's shorter." Petunia announced finally. "Now clear the table." she repeated, in a tone which showed no sign of relenting in order to discuss the philosophical ramifications of being unable to refer to someone by their birth name._

_With a shrug Harry started to carry the dirty dishes into the kitchen. When the dining room was back in sparkling order he made his way for the stairs eagerly. Then the door rang._

"_Bo… _Harry_," Aunt Petunia corrected herself. "Get the door." Her tone was just as shrill and domineering as ever. But Harry had to give her points for using his actual name for once._

"_Yes Aunt Petunia." he called back contritely. Or he was aiming for contrite at any rate. It may have just come across as sullen. With a small, resigned eye-roll he turned away from the banister and moved to open the door. He yanked on it, but it didn't open. With a frown he pulled again, but to no avail._

_He realised that the door was still locked, and chose not to think about his luck with opening things lately. When he finally did get it open, he decided he'd liked it a lot better closed anyway._

_There, on the other side of the door, was the hulking, purple-faced form of Marge Dursley. Harry felt his stomach drop a few inches and his eyes widen. "Au-Aunt Marge. What… why… what-er… what are you doing here?" he asked in the politest tone he could muster._

"_Don't ask questions." she snapped. "Well then, take my things boy. I haven't got all bleeding night. Where's my favourite nephew!" she called past Harry, into the house as she thrust her suitcase at him._

_Had Harry not been so shell-shocked, he would have pointed out that Dudley was her only nephew, as he himself was in no way connected with the old bat except by circumstances outside his control. However he **was** shell-shocked. And, if he were being completely honest, he was also more than a little winded by the suitcase that had just been shoved into his stomach._

_He turned slowly to gape speechlessly after Aunt Marge as she waddled confidently into the house. Aunt Petunia had appeared at the bottom of the stairs with her eyes the size of dinner plates. "Marge?" she asked. "I… I hadn't known you were coming for a visit." she commented in brittle voice as she spotted the suitcase in Harry's arms. "Is ah… Is Ripper with you?" she inquired, with much of the same forced politeness Harry himself had just been forced to use._

"_No, no. Afraid not Petunia. He's getting old. Not up to travel anymore I'm afraid. I was just at the hospital, thought I drop in by for a few days. Now where's my Ickle Dudders! Where's my Neffy Poo?" _

"_Oh God. I think I ate too much Chicken Casserole." Harry muttered to himself as a wave of nausea ran through him upon hearing Marge's saccharine tone. Aunt Petunia, who apparently had the ears of a bat, shot him a dangerous glare for the comment. Harry clamped his mouth shut and tried not to say anything else._

"_Take that upstairs to the guest room." Aunt Petunia ordered tenaciously. Harry readily did as instructed with visions of his father's notebook dancing through his mind. He swore vehemently under his breath when Aunt Petunia added, "And then come back downstairs! Don't be rude!"_

_With a heavy heart, Harry took his own sweet time in placing Aunt Marge's things into the Guest Bedroom. When he trudged back downstairs, ten minutes later, it was to be greeted with the sight of Aunt Marge, Aunt Petunia, Uncle Vernon and Dudley all sitting drinking tea in the living room. Unsure of whether he was expected to join them or not, Harry hovered by the door._

"_Don't just loiter there boy! Let me take a look at you!" Marge bellowed. In some small recess of his brain, Harry wondered why she always felt the need to be so loud. Nevertheless, he did as instructed. As he walked over to her he noted the time on the mantel clock. It was twenty past seven, and he resolved to be barricaded in his room by eight at the very latest._

"_Still a scrawny little thing aren't you?" she commented suspiciously. As though Harry were actually greatly substantial and just pretending to be otherwise in order to lull her into a false sense of security._

"_Er…" he wasn't sure if it was rhetorical or not, but felt that staying quiet was probably the safest option._

"_Still." Marge continued. "A bit more meat on you since the last time I saw you." a spiteful glint appeared in her eyes. "Ran out of here yelling about your good-for-nothing father's honour or some such as I remember it."_

"_Oh is that how you remember it?" Harry asked, with genuine curiosity as to how the Obliviators had altered her memory of the "incident" three years ago. The cautionary looks he got from the Dursleys was enough to make him swiftly quell any inquiries he had about that particular subject however. "I mean… er… I'm sorry if I upset you at all Aunt Marge." he told her with the most genuine expression he could manage._

_The fact that everyone in the room knew he'd love nothing more than the beat Aunt Marge with a large stick until she no longer had the ability to speak, was hardly relevant. They were exchanging (un) pleasantries after all._

"_The only thing that upset me, Boy," Aunt Marge snarled at him with narrow eyes. "Was that you came back."_

'Such a delightful woman_' Harry thought sarcastically. He wondered whether he'd be able to use that comment of hers to make a break for it, but Aunt Petunia had apparently already thought of that._

"_Why don't you go and get some biscuits Harry?" she said curtly. "Then come back in and have a seat over there." she waved vaguely towards a chair which was slightly separate from the others in the room. Harry nodded, but sent Aunt Petunia a look of pure venom before he left. Might as well make his feelings known he supposed._

_Half an hour later he was ready to smash his head off a wall. He also found himself wishing fervently that the Minsitry had let Marge remember what had happened to her last time she'd got him angry, as she seemed to be doing everything in her power to do it again. Perhaps she thought that if she got Harry angry enough he'd storm out of the house, never to be seen again. And if he didn't understand, with aching clarity, the reasons he had for staying with the Dursleys, then he very well may have._

_As it was, he was forced to sit and listen to a speech on eugenics which would have made Mrs Black proud, had it not come from a muggle._

"_Wastrels and fools will only produce more wastrels and fools, that's all I'm saying." she repeated for what had to be the eightieth time that minute. Harry glanced at the clock and remembered his earlier promise to himself. He could still keep it, providing he left the room within the next minute, sprinted up the stairs and barricaded very, very quickly._

"_Shouldn't let them breed is my way of thinking-"_

"_Well!" He interrupted quickly. "I'm really sorry to leave but I've got a mountain of homework still to do." he stated. Uncle Vernon appeared to be on the verge of disputing this when Harry sent him a dark look. A look which practically screeched "Remember what happened last time I was in a room with this woman for any length of time!" Uncle Vernon leant back in his chair without a word._

_Harry excused himself before Marge could get out another syllable and left the room at high speed. He bolted up the stairs and back into his room as swiftly as was humanly possible. _

_Feeling quite spectacularly annoyed with the world in general, he kicked his trunk over in front of the door. He debated for a moment whether putting his bed in front of it too would be a little extreme, but eventually came to the conclusion that expending that much energy on Aunt Marge was ridiculous. After all, if she entered his room he could curse her and tell the people at the Improper Use of Magic Office that he thought she was a young Giantess, sent by Voldemort to kill him in his sleep._

_Anyone who laid eyes on Marge Dursley would surely understand how easily a mistake of that nature could be made._

_With a sour air about him, Harry plonked himself down at his desk. His father's notebook was already open at the page he'd been reading and so Harry was able to forget his own life and slip back into his father's effortlessly…_

-

Quidditch Journal  
Entry 9  
July 21st

Dear Thing,

Update on the war on McLaggen: He attempted to get into our cabin again. We'd already set up defences (D-E-F-E-N-C-E-S pronounced, "_Brilliant-ingenious-quasi-dangerous-Booby-Traps-designed-and-installed-by-yours-truly-with-spectacular-suggestions-from-my-diabolical-troupe._") and so that didn't go very well for them. Every kid in cabin is now luminous orange and glows in the dark. It's quite entertaining. Their entire hut is lit up like a Dutch Brothel. Arvid told me there's a boy in his cabin who's afraid of the dark and is now using McLaggen's cabin as a night light. ANYWAY, that's not the point.

The point is I spoke to Sofia today.

As in an honest to goodness conversation. A conversation where she told me all about herself and revealed personal and important details about herself to me… To be fair, she was at wand point. But still, I call it progress.

See, I was in my room and I heard her sneaking out to go for a quick fly when everyone else was getting ready for bed. I re-enforced our protection and then went out after her. I caught her nipping around that compound like nothing on Earth. Seriously, I don't think I've ever seen someone move that fast on a broom. Which is surprising because my own broom is actually superior to the one provided for her by the Camp. But there you go.

She spotted me, came in to land (rather than fall off. See? Progress!) and sent me a look which is commonly referred to as a "Death Glare". She then tried to brush past me with her nose in the air. A move patented by Lily Evans in Fourth year, if memory serves. To be fair, Evans would usually give me a quick kick to my shins as well, but that should in no way detract from the dramatic impact of young Miss Ivanova's exit. It really was quite spectacular.

Regrettably, I'm an irritable git. And so I yelled something about her being completely off her rocker (yes, I do spot the irony) and performed a quick Levicorpus on her. Yes! All right? I admit it! I hung a seven year old girl in the air by her ankle. I am a horrible and appalling example of the human race and should be taken out and guillotined for all to see. I know this! But the fact is, I was annoyed with her, okay?

The girl has outstanding talent and makes me look like a bumbling amateur, and she was completely _wasting_ it! And since the only logical reason anyone has put forward for her doing this is that she's done something wrong and feels guilty. This being from Evans, you can pretty much assume that it's accurate since she's practically bloody empathic.

And she wouldn't talk. Or blink. Or… God. ANYTHING! I was annoyed! I'm annoyed now and I'm just thinking about it.

So yes. I dangled her. And yes, she screamed obscenities at me. And yes, I put a silencing charm on her and floated her outside of Camp where I could threaten her in peace. So there you have it, I'm a horrible little piece of stunted scum. Got it? Are we clear? I'm bad person. Now lets move on, shall we?

When I (finally) got her to calm down and stop swearing at me, I sat her down and spoke to her. With the wand still pointed at her head… look, it was still civilized all right? Just not as civilized as, say for example, a tea party at Grandmother's house or something. You know, if I had a Grandmother. Because at the moment a tea party at _my_ Grandmother's house would involve a necromancer. Which wouldn't really be civilised. So really it was more like tea in McGonagall's office. Yes, that's perfectly civilised.

Which this was too, so there. You can't judge me…

…

Oh for the love of God, I'm trying to justify myself to stationary. I'm completely and utterly barking at this point, I must be.

Anyway, I sat her down and started talking to her. She glared at me for a bit and refused to say anything. So I glared back at her and didn't say anything either. She crossed her arms over her chest and scowled at me.

I lounged around on a rock and smirked at her. After about half an hour of this, it was actually getting cold and neither of us had made a sound. Told you I could teach lessons on being insufferable. As expected, she cracked first. She did so with the exceptionally original line: "What the hell do you want you bastard?"

I'm not sure why every girl I like, short of my actual mother, feels the need to assume that I'm a bastard. But they do. Similarly, all the girls I don't like just giggle. Maybe I'm glutton for punishment.

So I told her that I wanted to know why she wouldn't fly in front of anyone. She glared and didn't answer. I then told her that I wanted to know why she'd refused to talk for her first few days here. She glared and didn't answer. I told her I wanted to know where she learned to fly. She glared and… well, I suppose you can guess her reaction by this point. So then, being the sarcastic git that I am, I asked her what her favourite colour was. She gave me a look which makes me suspect that if she'd had a wand then I would have been subjected to at least one Unforgivable. Maybe two.

Deciding to place my trust in the hands of the delectable Miss Evans, I asked her to tell me about what she'd done wrong. While she still didn't answer, it has to be said that the look I received was the furthest thing from a glare I've ever witnessed. She paled to such an extent that she very closely resembled the paper on which I'm writing. Her eyes went as big as the moon and she honestly looked as though I'd just stabbed her through the heart with a letter-opener. It was upsetting. I won't deny it.

But hey, I can get around that. Just stand around and smirk. I'm good at that. I'm thinking of writing a book about it. (Interesting side question: Does writing this count as writing a book? Hmm.)

So I just stood. And I smirked. Shocking, I know. She started babbling. Mostly in Bulgarian so I was rather nonplussed by that part. I might end up asking Remus to lend me his Bulgarian dictionary. Not that I know for sure he actually has a Bulgarian dictionary, but I don't doubt he'd know where to get me one on fairly short notice. Could get Sirius to pay for it out of my moneybag too.

Er… where was I?

Right. She was ranting in Bulgarian. It was a bit worrying after about five minutes so I told her to sit down, calm down and explain in English.

And that, dear reader, (whoever the hell you are) is how I ended up spending four hours sitting outside in the middle of the desert around a conjured campfire, in conjured armchairs, drinking conjured tea and talking to the incomparable Sofia Ivanova.

See the thing she did wrong, was show up at the Little Champions International Quidditch Training Camp. She was never supposed to be here. She was supposed to be in Perthshire with one of her innumerable Aunts (she told me all about them, it's truly horrifying how many of them there are. Who has fourteen Aunts I ask you?). Her twin brother, Stefan, was supposed to come here and become their little hero since he's the first boy born into their family for heaven-knows-how-long.

The only downside being, that Stefan can't play Quidditch to save his life. He's a rather talented Chess Player though, according to Sofia. And he's forever inventing things. But flying isn't his thing. So, when one of his more open-minded Aunts (the Scottish one) started taking him to Quidditch lessons she was a bit upset. But when Stefan came home from the lessons, gave Sofia his broomstick and started telling her everything their instructor had told them then the Aunt saw her potential. Sofia has been attending Stefan's Quidditch lessons ever since without the knowledge of her mother or any of her other Aunts.

But when Sofia found out about this hell hole… er… that is to say, this Training Camp, she wanted to come. Her Scottish Aunt arranged it so that her mother would think she was staying with her in Scotland while Stefan came to this thing and everyone would be happy. Or not.

Since Sofia's mother caught onto the whole thing about five minutes before Sofia left and was so not amused. So Sofia's mother and Aunt had a bit of a set-to over it all. Sofia assures me that there was a lot of screaming, name-calling and vase throwing. Then her Aunt (whose name is Boyka, by the way. Sofia called me an idiot for finding this amusing) yelled at her to just Floo straight here and forget anything ever happened.

She doesn't want people to see her fly. I asked her why not and she just got this pained expression.

If I were Lily then I'd probably tell you that she felt scared. That she didn't want her mother to hate her and so she didn't want to do the thing that her mother hated. But that since she couldn't help doing it, she at least wanted to do it in private.

I'm not Lily.

I think the girl's a moron.

I told her as much. She glared at me again. I demanded to know why she didn't talk for the first few days.

She looked at me like I was completely clueless and then told me, in a crisp and extremely impatient voice: "Firstly, I didn't want to expose myself. Secondly, most of the imbeciles here are not worth talking to anyway."

I should probably deny laughing at that. But it's true and it's funny, so I did.

Anyway, my current situation is this: I am sitting here in my 'room' at four AM, wondering what Sirius is doing. I realise, that after everything that's happened tonight I probably shouldn't be wondering about that, but I am. Mainly, I think, because after six years my initial instinct, when faced with a situation like this, is to go and find Sirius so he can help me. It's not that I don't want Remus and Peter's help, because I do. But it's not the same. It's about six PM there so he's probably having dinner with my parents. Not that it's really relevant.

Bugger.

I need to write a letter to Aunt Boyka and get her on my side so we can " Coordinate our attack", if you will, on Sofia's mother to get her to understand how truly and spectacularly talented her daughter is. I also need to continue my plot against McLaggen, get Albert to talk to me, get Ping and Iggy healthy, get Sofia to fly in front of other people, get Amy to leave me alone, get Evans to think of me as something other than scum, and do all this without losing my mind.

And somehow, _somehow_, I also need to sleep at some point. Not now though. I've got my initial draft of the letter to Aunt Boyka to write. And a few more plots against McLaggen to cook up. And a six AM start.

Bloody hell. I never thought I'd die like this. Of exhaustion, in a desert, with no one but Uncle friggin Seth to be held accountable.

Wonder if I could get mum to send me a few stimulating potions. Or at least a couple tons of coffee…


	8. Nuts, Hinges, Glasses and Owls

**Disclaimer**: Well colour me stunned… turns out, Harry Potter? Belongs to some chick called "Joan Rolling" or something like that. Seriously, who knew, I ask you? Who?

**Note**: I love my fantastically safe Toyota. I'm just making fun of Aunt Marge and all the "Buy British" people… because that's basically my purpose in life.

* * *

_Harry glanced at the alarm clock by his bed. It was coming up for nine o'clock at night and he wasn't even vaguely tired. He was thirsty though. And, if he was being honest, starting to feel cravings for a quick game of Quidditch. Though he supposed that was to be expected, given his chosen reading material and all._

_A course of action popped into his head, as they often do when it doesn't really matter what you do anyway. Give him the task of facing down a Hungarian Horntail or breaking into the Ministry of Magic and he'd just get on with it. But getting a glass of water, _that_ required thought and consideration._

_He paced his room a couple of times to get his blood flowing properly again. It was a problem Hogwarts students rarely mentioned, but when you went home for the holidays you often found yourself getting restless. You had the urge to walk places, and do things. The reasoning was very simple: When you had to walk half the length of a castle to get to your morning cup of tea, you sort of built up a resistance to it. To be fair, Harry only noticed this fact when he'd seen a couple of first year Slytherins looking half-dead after having to run up to the Astronomy Tower in time for their lesson. A jaunt which, as Ron pointed out, he could do in his sleep._

_He moved over to the door and crouched down into an incredibly awkward position, in order to listen through the door. From downstairs, Aunt Marge's voice rang out ominously. From what Harry could gather, she was yelling at the News Headlines. Why anyone would feel the need to do this, he wasn't exactly sure. It wasn't like yelling at a Quidditch referee or something; it was utterly useless. With a shrug he got up and moved his trunk out of the way._

_Employing every trick he knew to stay quiet, Harry slunk out into the hall. He grinned slightly as a few of his night-time escapades at Hogwarts floated into his mind. The most prominent, for some reason, being the run in with Fluffy in his first year. However he wasn't honestly comparing Aunt Marge to a three-headed Beast intent upon eviscerating him and his friends…_

"_Bloody Japanese and their technology! Making the world more complicated every bloody year! Why would anyone need that many airbags anyway?"_

_Nope. At least Fluffy could be considered cute by certain people. Even if the certain person in question happened to think giant, homicidal spiders were just misunderstood._

_Creeping carefully down the stairs and jumping the bottom steps (just for safety's sake… he wasn't paranoid or anything), Harry finally managed to get into the kitchen._

"_All this for a drink of water." he muttered, reaching up to grab a glass from the top cabinet._

_Outside, the sun was still casting a warm glow on Little Whinging. There were a few kids playing with a Golden Retriever at the other end of the street and Mark Evans (no relation) was, surprisingly enough, talking to a group of girls around Dudley's age. All of whom were laughing a bit too loudly at something he'd just said._

_Seeing it, Harry grinned to himself. It would probably irritate Dudley to no end, seeing a kid of that age get more attention from girls than he could ever dream of. Particularly a scrawny little kid like Mark Evans, who reminded Harry quite distinctly of Fred Weasley in his approach to life. It was certain to be driving Dudley up the wall. And, with that happy thought still in mind, Harry shut off the tap and turned to go back upstairs. They'd all have to go inside soon enough, because even the British summer sunlight wouldn't provide enough light for them much longer._

_As he walked past the living room he carefully peered inside, careful not to be spotted. Aunt Marge was still gesticulating at the television, Uncle Vernon was chuckling good-naturedly along with her and Aunt Petunia looked as though she wished nothing more than to be sitting at the kitchen table with a gossip magazine. Dudley was Missing In Action however. Without too much concern as to his cousin's whereabouts, Harry tiptoed his way back upstairs._

_His biggest concern, at that exact moment, was whether or not the letters to Aunt Boyka would be archived or not. That quickly changed, however, when he heard noises coming from his room. Within even thinking, Harry shifted the glass of water to his other hand and extracted his wand from the back of his jeans. The only reason he hadn't yanked out the wand at top speed and gone tearing in there, throwing the glass at whatever he found, was because it might have been Hedwig. The only noise was of paper rustling and Hedwig did occasionally go rifling through his things in search of an Owl Treat._

_Then he supposed it could've been the Order again. But in all honesty, they could probably all defend against any curse he could throw out at the moment. And they could most-certainly defend against a wayward glass of water._

_Slowly approaching his bedroom, Harry listened even more carefully. He frowned. Was that… muttering?_

"_This is all you get at that stupid school of yours? Homework?"_

_Dudley. _

_Anger flared in Harry's mind. Dudley was looking through his things. That stupid, idiotic, insolent son of a… Harry took a deep breath and calmed himself. That gigantic idiot had to suffer for this. But how?_

'_**Just stand around and smirk.**' His father's advice came back to Harry quite suddenly. It wasn't especially helpful really. But it might unnerve Dudley, and that was always fun. With shrug, Harry decided that it was as good an approach as any. He took a sip of his water and started twirling his wand nonchalantly. Then he meandered towards his door._

_He leant on the doorframe casually, arranged his features into a smirk and watched his cousin continue to go through his desk, completely oblivious to his presence. Downstairs Marge and Vernon were discussing something or other and occasionally roaring with laughter. It was hard to tell which one was chortling at any given time but it didn't really matter._

_Dudley, however, was going right through everything. He discarded Lupin's note without reading it and was reaching for James's diary when Harry finally spoke up._

"_Spot anything interesting Big D?" he inquired blithely, before taking another sip of his water._

_The sip of water was only taken to disguise the large grin that had come to his face as he watched his cousin yelp in alarm and jump about a foot in the air._

"_Wh-what are you…" Dudley's eyes drifted down to where Harry continued to twirl his wand. Harry's false-smirk became a real one. A real one which, frankly, wouldn't have looked at all out of place on a Malfoy._

"_I asked you a question." he told Dudley simply. "Did you find anything of interest?" another elaborate twirl. "I mean I'd hate for you to go to all the trouble of sneaking into my room, going through my things and exerting yourself so far as to actually _read_ something and to have it all be for nothing." He performed another trick with his wand and nearly dropped it. He managed to cover it up though. Deciding that it would probably be in his best interests not to drop it though, he pointed it squarely at Dudley and demanded, "So what did you find?"_

"_You can't… you can't use that thing." Dudley stated confidently. Or it would have been confident if it weren't for the way his eyes darted about and his voice trembled ever-so-slightly. _

_Harry grinned. "Funny. That's what you said last year, and yet I used it without any trouble then didn't I?" Harry silently prayed that there was no Ministry of Magic Personnel listening in._

"_B-but, you did get in trouble." Dudley pointed out._

"_Ah yes. Put up in a London townhouse with all my friends and a servant to cater to my every whim. That was one severe punishment, Dud." True, the servant in question occasionally tried to kill him, the friends in question had been on edge around him the whole time and the townhouse in question was about as close to hell on Earth as it was possible to get. But Dudley didn't need to know these things._

_Dudley's hand was still hovering ridiculously over his father's notebook. It annoyed Harry if he was honest. The great idiot shouldn't be near it at all. He tried to convey as much with the glare he sent Dudley._

"_Well fine," he snapped. "If you're not going to have a decent conversation then get out of my room." Dudley didn't move. Harry tightened his grip on his wand. "Dudley. Get. Out." he repeated in a low and dangerous voice._

_Dudley didn't even remove his hand. He stuck his jaw out and demanded, "I want to know what you've been doing up here."_

_Harry quirked an eyebrow. "Do you really?" he queried. "Well, that's nice for you Dudley. Now get the hell out."_

"_Have you got a girlfriend?" Dudley asked with a frown. Harry nearly choked._

"_Have I…? You are out of your tiny little mind." he stated in bemused amazement. "Seriously, you're completely starkers. Are you honestly telling me that the only reason that thick head of yours can come up with for why I'm in here is that I've got a girlfriend?" Dudley didn't answer but he was still eyeing Harry suspiciously. Harry shook his head in awed disbelief. "Completely, bloody, mental." he commented. "There are rocks with better deductive reasoning skills than you."_

"_Well then what is it? What are you doing in here?" he demanded._

_Involuntarily, Harry's gaze flickered to the notebook. Just for a second. But it was enough for Dudley to spot it. His beady little eyes lit up with malevolent delight. "What's this then?" he asked tauntingly. "Got a Diary here Potter?"_

_Harry opened his mouth to inform Dudley that it wasn't a Diary, it was a 'Quidditch-Journal-thing' when he realised how completely insane he'd have to be before he said that. "You don't want to touch that Dudley." he warned his cousin instead. "Trust me on that one."_

"_Oh no? What are you going to do to me then?" Dudley asked. Harry wasn't sure what he'd do, but he was absolutely positive it would be violent._

"_Don't do it Dudley." he stated once again, in a cold tone. Dudley didn't listen._

_He reached out his chubby little fingers and seized the notebook gleefully. Harry started towards his cousin, barely noticing as the glass that had been in his hands seconds earlier shattered against the door of the Guest Bedroom._

"_Dudley…" he bit out harshly, intending to follow it up with a threat of his cousin's extremely timely demise. But despite Harry's every intention of making good on his threat, he was slightly surprised to see Dudley freeze and his eyes widen in horror._

_Harry stopped in his tracks._

"_What did you… what did you do?" Dudley asked him in horror. Harry frowned. He hadn't done anything. Had he? Accidental magic was pretty common but he sort of figured that if he'd done something bad enough to get that look from Dudley then he would've at least noticed it. Even Wingardium Leviosa left a sense that you'd done it. A sort of… post-magic afterglow typed thing._

_But there was nothing._

_Dudley's eyes widened even further (further than Harry would have thought possible). He started convulsing, moaning in agony. Harry leapt over to him. "Dudley! Oi! What is it? Dudley you prat, if you don't tell me what's wrong…"_

_Harry's eyes fell to the notebook still clutched in his cousin's hands. He rolled his eyes. "Stupid, paranoid, idiot father's going to get me grounded for life." he muttered vehemently under his breath. Reaching out, he grabbed the notebook and tugged it roughly out of Dudley's grasp._

_His cousin toppled backwards onto Harry's bed and stared up at him in horror. Harry sent him a glare that could've left Voldemort trembling. "Next time I tell you not to touch something, you don't touch it. Are we clear?" he demanded coldly. Dudley didn't respond. Harry pointed his wand and narrowed his eyes. "Are we clear?"_

_Dudley nodded fervently. He held up his hands in front of his face to examine them, and Harry saw they were red raw. It was almost as though they'd been burnt, but there was no sign of scarring at all. Harry figured the curse, whatever it was, was only supposed to imitate the effects of burning or lacerations or whatever that was, without causing any lasting damage. Hermione would have a field day figuring out how this one worked._

_Finally satisfied Dudley got up and started to move over to the door. "I… I'm telling. You're not allowed to do magic." he said warily. Harry scoffed._

"_I didn't. You were just idiotic enough to pick up a magical object after I expressly told you not to. Shortly after sneaking into my room to do it, might I add."_

"_I'm still telling." Dudley stated. Harry rolled his eyes in irritation and started straightening out his desk. He'd had a system damn it, and then Dudley had gone and ruined everything._

"_You know what _Big D_, you go ahead. I'm sure Aunt Marge would love nothing more than to hear all about how the big bad notebook reduced to a quivering wreck." he stuffed his wand into his back pocket again and stooped to pick up Remus's note. "Oh, and in case I haven't mentioned… get out."_

_Without looking over at Dudley again he sat down and grabbed the first letter that came to hand. He thought he heard his cousin vacating the area but he didn't know for sure. Nor did he care._

_- -_

To my Darling Parents,

How long has it been since last I spoke with you? Since last we dined together? Since last you held me in your arms?

Memories of your laughing faces and happier times dance through my mind, as a stark reminder of what I left behind. I do not know how long I have left before my Captors find me, but I know for certain they will and that when they do, their wrath will be terrible. The only thing that keeps me going is the hope of escape, and the small satisfaction I glean by covertly taunting and insulting them. I am usually subtle enough to go more-or-less unnoticed, but I do not deny that I have been found out on more than one occasion. And when that happens, the consequences are great.

I thought I knew terror. I thought I knew pain. But that… that was before I came to the Little Champions International Training Camp. This place holds tortures of which I could not dream. Though the daily routine is excruciating enough to bring tears to my eyes.

Every morning, when the sun is barely approaching the horizon, I am viciously torn from my slumber by an inhuman trumpeting far in the distance. It falls to me to assemble my troops, my accomplices, my only support. I must get them up and ready to face another day of unequalled torment, though the guilt I feel for subjecting them to such a fate is unimaginable.

Every day, before daylight has even taken hold, I am subjected to their diabolical Water Torture. A short burst of ice cold water springs forth from the device they laughingly and condescendingly refer to a 'shower'. The frozen liquid lashes my tender flesh, leaving my vulnerable form soaked, shaking and frigid while my susceptible flesh valiantly attempts to shed it's red and wounded condition. I watch with desolation as my comrades in arms escape, trembling and frightened from the very same hell I myself have just lived through and offer hollow words of assurance that the worst is over. They cannot dare to believe me. But then… I hardly believe myself anymore.

Our Captors file us into the Dining Hall in our individual groups. We are placed at a table and given our morning meal. I have often found myself thinking longingly of the tales of Victorian England I once read, tales from the Work Houses where the starving hoards were fed nothing but gruel. Gruel, sweet glorious gruel, that slides satisfyingly down your throat and warms you from the inside. It would be a vast improvement upon the rubbery substance we are forced to consume. When, twenty minutes later, we are thrust out of the dining hall, I suspect once again that the food was not food at all, but rather a Muggle-made compound. Once again I suspect that it will pass through my system unchanged, leaving my aching hunger to linger on.

We, the eldest prisoners, are offered some mild respite from this harsh and exacting routine. We are told to 'set up' for the next stage in our torment. This involves organising our unsuspecting inferiors into ranks and ensuring that they are all well enough to continue. Those that are not healthy enough to be considered 'useful' are sent to an even deeper circle of hell, one which I dare not contemplate. They call it the Medi-Hut. I myself have yet to fall prey to this inauspicious cabin of Death, though the thought alone is enough to haunt my dreams.

Though this activity they call 'setting up' is by far preferable to any other pursuit in this Fortress, even it is tinged with ill-intent. Throughout, I am subjected to the inane ramblings of a South African lamiae. She pretends to be one of us, but I can see through her flimsy façade. Her step is too light, her voice is too cheerful and her complexion to bright for her to really be one of us. She is nothing more than out Captor's flunky, a mindless drone and informant. It has been clear to me from the very beginning that her never-ending prattle is little more than a half-hearted attempt to rob me of my sanity. Within my first few days I had already developed a suitable method of tuning her out. Clearly, her superiors have underestimated me.

It is only then, after lulling us into a false sense of security, that the real cruelty begins however. In a psychologically perverted attempt at turning my comrades against me, they have me subjected them to the unparalleled trauma of 'Basic Flight Manoeuvres'. Though I pray that my troops see through this sadistic charade, I do sometimes wonder…

After five, torturous hours of this, we are released to once again frequent the dining hall. The substances served to us at noon defy imagination, and description. Though I don't for a second believe that it is food, I can do nothing but devour it and be grateful for the fleeting relief it offers me.

Then we are once again set free, to amuse ourselves and 'train our teams' in anticipation of the life or death tournament that will signal the end of this torment. My partners in crime are more than willing to set aside any animosity they may have felt towards me throughout the day in order to make the most of this time before the next knock to our egos is endured.

After yet another horrific trip to the Dining Hall we are forced to go through the worst and most excruciating torture method ever devised by man: Campfire Nights.

In a mocking and blatant disregard of the burning heat that plagues us day by day, our Captors light up a bonfire and force us all to sit around it like glazed swine at a barbeque. We take it in turns to be interrogated for useless and humiliating information and answer questions of such pathetically sub-par calibre that even I am unable to remain immune to their deleterious effects on one's brain cells. After nearly an hour of cold-heartedly demanding such pointless information as 'What did you want to be when you were little?' and 'Do you have any pets?' I was, at last, free.

Free to collapse into my cold, hard, (surprisingly itchy) bed and drift into blessed unconsciousness. But even then I know, that in a few short hours I will be forced to start all over again…

Desolately yours,

James Potter.

P.S. Quidditch results, Voldemort/Ministry or Morons news and copious amounts of coffee all greatly appreciated. Try not to let the pain of my absence bring you down too much.

**To My Nearly Forgotten Son,**

**As I sit here, a cool breeze rustling my hair and a fine Chateaux Blanc tickling my taste buds, I think almost longingly of my dearly departed son…**

**Then I remember what a melodramatic little prat he was, and the feeling swiftly disappears. **

**Besides, didn't you hear? We've got a NEW son. One who is distinctly more handsome, one who has hair that actually stays in place on occasion and one who (Shock! Horror!) does chores of his own free will. His name is Sirius, I'm not sure if you're familiar with him or not.**

**For reasons that are entirely beyond my ken, my Beloved Wife misses you. She seems to think that life would be improved by your presence. This, to me, is a sign that she doesn't remember what it's like having a trouble-maker such as yourself around the house. **

**Despite my own personal relief at having finally got rid of you, I have been instructed to (erroneously) inform you that you are missed. I am also instructed to tell you that recent League Quidditch games have been cancelled after an investigation by the Department of Games and Sports. It's quite upsetting. I wanted to take my new son to see a game… He does seem so depressed. Apparently missing some friend of his or something. I try not to pry.**

**And for the last time: You are not allowed to refer to the Ministry of Magic in that manner. The fact that they don't consider Voldemort a threat does not make them morons. The fact that they sent you to Australia for helping Sirius escape does not make them morons. The fact that… oh bloody hell, why do I bother? Yes, all right, fine, they're morons. But you're in Australia. So nyah nyah nyah nyah nyah.**

**Coffee enclosed. Your mother sends it with her love. I don't. I never liked you. I like Sirius better.**

**Smugly yours,**

**The handsome, funny and intelligent James Potter. (So there.)**

_- -_

_Laughing slightly at the interaction between his father and his grandfather, Harry leant back in his chair. He looked around the make sure Dudley was gone and then grabbed an abandoned trainer off the floor. He flung it at the door, sending it swinging shut with minimal input from him._

_He realised that he was still a little thirsty but he didn't really see it as worth going downstairs over._

_Harry took out his wand and prodded the notebook experimentally. He didn't want Dudley to see that he was at all alarmed by what the notebook had done which was why he'd simply continued reading. But in all honesty, it worried him slightly. Not that he thought the journal would harm him or anything, the very notion was ridiculous. But he was a little worried about what it would do to others._

_But then, he supposed, that when you compared it to certain other diaries Harry was acquainted with, the protection measures on this one were nothing short of quaint. After all, he really didn't expect to be possessed by the spirit of James Potter and start running around Hogwarts, randomly cursing Snape and messing up his hair…_

_Harry frowned. And with THAT exceptionally bizarre image still firmly in his mind, he flipped open the sheet of paper in his hands and took a look._

_- -_

Hey Hagrid,

Oh wow. Names. Er… Hang on. (I'm allowed to be thinking about this since we're going over proper broom maintenance. Who doesn't know how to polish a broom I ask you? I've met muggles who could tell you without batting an eye-lid.)

Max? Fang? Butch? Baskerville? (That's funny if you've ever read… never mind. I'm just nuts.) Well I guess it depends on the dog anyway, doesn't it? It would hardly do to get your hands on a vicious, anti-social wolf of a dog and then call it 'Snuggles' would it?

Now that we've established that: What rumour might affect me? There's a rumour that might affect me? Why? What did I do? I bet you Sirius did it too, if I did it. Does he know what it is? How about Remus, he's a prefect so he should know. Why? What is it? What could I have done that warrants talking about during the holidays? Tell me, tell me, tell me.

Aww Christ. You've got me all cracked up. Damn you Hagrid!

Tell me!

James.

**Dear James,**

**I'm not saying nothing.**

**And those puppies are due in about a month. After that my friend wants to wait a couple of weeks before giving me them. So you'll get to meet the little feller before I name him and have your say.**

**Try not to be so crazy Potter.**

**Hagrid.**

_- -_

_Harry yawned and stretched. It was nearly ten o'clock. The Dursleys would be going to bed soon. And, if he was honest, he was pretty far beyond knackered himself. But there was only one more envelope left, so he could hardly stop then. He vowed to read it and then go to bed. Just one more envelope._

_That meant that the letter to Aunt Boyka wasn't included though. Harry was tempted to skim ahead and see if it was in amongst the next batch of letters but he, once again, saw Hermione's disapproving scowl float into his mind._

_Stifling yet another yawn he acceded to going to bed as soon as he was done with the heavy parchment letter in his hands._

_After all, how much could be written in one envelope?_

_Tipping it open onto the cluttered desk, he mentally kicked himself for asking that question. A bona fide cornucopia of multi-coloured paper fluttered out of the envelope. Harry blew out a breath and set about looking for the relevant sheets._

_James's letters were all written on regular muggle paper. Harry tracked down two pieces that matched that basic description and, after a quick glance over them, realised that they were indeed written in his father's neatly rounded scroll. Another quick hunt through the pile and he discovered a few pieces of parchment that were a match to the envelope. He saw a multitude of handwriting, both on the parchment and on every other piece of paper there._

_For the sake of his sanity, Harry started reading his father's two short letters first._

_- -_

My Dear fellow-Marauders,

War has been declared on me and my brood. I did not start this war, nor did I encourage it, and yet it was declared. By a thick-skulled prat with no neck and no talent besides leering at every post-pubescent female in sight.

So, you see, I have no choice but to destroy him completely. It is in his own best interests to be obliterated. Annihilated. Exterminated. I want to make him cry like a little girl. (Yes, it is still in his best interest.)

The target is Duane McLaggen and his cabin. But mostly Duane McLaggen. The kids may not be harmed. Merely… humiliated and scared. I'm not being cruel, they attacked my kids. And there are six of them and they're all ridiculously muscular nine year olds while my four kids are small, unhealthy and have an average age of seven and a half. The main target is still, however, Duane McLaggen.

The war is barely underway however. True, I did make him cry. True, I turned his cabin luminous orange. But personally, I don't feel that covers it. Do you? Now, whilst I am more than capable of destroying McLaggen on my own, I am completely incapable of destroying McLaggen AND teaching four kids how to play first class Quidditch so that we can win that too. So, I need your help. All three of you.

And no holds barred, please. This. Is. War.

Yours, Prongs.

Oh and Sirius, stop threatening Evans family members. I'm not THAT desperate for her attention. And before you even start, I'll know if there were any remarks made at my expense in reference to that last sentence and I will respond accordingly just as soon as I'm back in the same hemisphere.

_- -_

Dear Ms Evans,

My mentally unhinged best-friend has always been completely barking. It's part of his innate charm, and neither I nor anyone else would change it for the world.

I have, however, politely requested that he stop threatening your family members. After all, turning your sister into a gecko is entirely unacceptable behaviour. Having met her, I would go with a vulture. Maybe a cricket or insect of some kind… You see vulture matches her personality but it's a little higher up on the food chain than I personally would like to see her.

By the way, my mute little friend isn't. Mute that is. She's perfectly capable of speaking English. And Bulgarian actually. And swearing fluently in both apparently. But, having taken your advice (at great personal risk might I add, as she's a scary seven year old and if I'd been wrong she may have hurt me) I can safely inform you that she is more than willing to talk now. Well… perhaps 'willing' would be an overstatement of the facts. But still, a guy takes what he can get.

And, as much as I would like to use your name as a pawn to further my attack on the Troglodyte, I'm afraid that I refuse to do so until such times as I know why you strike fear into his heart. You see I refuse to say something like "Be careful McLaggen or I'll do what Lily Evans did to you!" until I know for certain that what you did wasn't date him and break up with him in public. Because I'm not prepared to have that much damage done to my image.

So if you'd be as accommodating as to write back then I'd very much appreciate it.

(quite pathetically so, by this point) Yours, James Potter a.k.a. Your very favourite stalker.

_- -_

_Harry smiled a bit at the way his father signed his letter to Evans, er Lily, er his Mother. (The notebook would not brainwash him, the notebook would not brainwash him, the notebook would not brainwash him…)_

_He grabbed the rather lengthy parchment reply and was surprised to see his mother's handwriting once more._

_- -_

**Dear Mister Potter,**

**We (Sirius, Remus, Peter and I) have decided to join forces in your battle against Duane McLaggen. We have done so, not out of the kindness of our hearts as you may be tempted to believe, but rather out of the insatiable need to amuse ourselves.**

**Them, I suspect, because you're not here to amuse them. Me, I know, because my sister is planning her wedding and it's driving me up the wall. Besides, the demented and unhinged best friend of yours referenced in our last correspondence showed up at my front door asking to use my bedroom as a base of operations. "Since Mister and Missus Potter don't know what James is up to." I agreed under the condition that they cursed my soon-to-be brother in law. I feel it works for everyone.**

**As I write this, I am perched precariously on my window sill, hoping that the patio below isn't quite as solid as it appears. You see, every inch of my room has been covered in 'battle plans'. **

**Oh good lord. Remus just burnt a hole through my wall. I can't believe I let this lot near my potions ingredients. I can only hope you people don't do this in your dormitory, for the sake of the House Elves.**

**Remus has now been ordered over to my bed and is transfiguring something or other into something else which, I don't doubt, will be horrendously ingenious and baffling. For his sake I'm hoping it's not another one of mum's lamps since she became fairly hysterical when Sirius transformed that last one into a grass-snake. Sirius himself is pacing the room, muttering about ways to 'really get the bastard' (UNHINGED I tell you!). And Peter is sprawled out on the floor figuring out methods of making sure you don't get caught. I'm observing all this from a safe distance and occasionally throwing in helpful suggestions. I personally feel this is the most comfortable position I could possibly be in and probably the one most pertinent to my continued physical and psychological well-being.**

**Hmm. Do I want to know why Sirius Black just conjured up a fondue set? No. No I don't. Forget I asked. Anyway.**

**Inside the envelope we will be sending this, there will be a piece of bright yellow paper. That piece of bright yellow paper will have a copy of a song on it which Peter wrote, to be sung to the tune of Walking in a Winter Wonderland. There'll also be a charmed paper aeroplane attacked to it. Do not, I repeat DO NOT touch this aeroplane with your bare hands unless you want to find yourself wearing nothing but a pink, glittery bustier and panty-hose, singing the song on the yellow piece of paper at the top of your lungs.**

**And no, it wasn't my idea no matter what Peter may tell you, so don't even comment. Incidentally, the bustier et al will disappear after an hour or two of him singing. And the only way to stop it, or the singing, is for you or someone else to join in and sing along with them. The clothes he was originally wearing, however, will be more or less a lost cause.**

_Harry paused to search for a piece of bright yellow paper. He finally found it next to a diagram of a fairly evil looking teddy bear which he chose to ignore. He cringed as he read it, wondering if Duane McLaggen would ever manage to live it down if he'd been forced to sing it in public. It read:_

_**Lacy things… my mum is missin'**_

_**Didn't ask… her permission**_

_**I'm wearing her clothes, her silk pantyhose**_

_**Walking round in women's underwear!**_

_**In the store… there's a teddy**_

_**Little straps… like spaghetti**_

_**It holds me so tight, like handcuffs at night,**_

_**Walking round in women's underwear!**_

_**Round the corner there's a guy named William, he pretends that I am Murphy Brown**_

_**He'll say: "Are you ready?" I'll say: "Whoa man… let's wait until our mums are out of town"**_

_**Later on… if you wanna**_

_**We can dress… like Madonna**_

_**Put on some eyeshade, and join the parade**_

_**Walking round in women's underwear!**_

_**Lacy things… she's still missin**_

_**Still don't have… her permission**_

_**I'm wearing her clothes, her silk pantyhose,**_

_**Walking round in women's underwear!**_

_**Walking round in women's underwear!**_

_**Walking round in women's underwear!**_

_- -_

_Despite being mostly written in Peter Pettigrew's small, untidy handwriting, Harry couldn't help but notice that the bridge (as it were) was quite clearly written in his mother's script. Surely she couldn't be so cruel after her disdain at James's actions towards Snape? If she was, what on Earth had Duane McLaggen done to her to merit such behaviour? And, more to the point, where on Earth had they come up with that idea!_

_With a feeling of extreme disquiet as to his parents sanity, Harry reached back towards the original parchment letter that his mother had written._

_- -_

**Sirius and Peter have also come up with a creation which I personally consider to be evil incarnate. It's a teddy bear. And evil, horrifying, baby-eating Teddy Bear which has no place in the world outside of nightmares. Seriously, it's like having Satan in a Soft Toy. I feel like I'm in a Karen Black movie or something. I'm waiting for it to pick up a tiny little spear and start stabbing me to death.**

**Anyway, the basic idea is that you take this little abomination and let it loose in McLaggen's cabin, letting mayhem and chaos reign. The bear is pre-programmed to attack McLaggen and his 'allies' (read: cabin). It has scarily sharp little teeth and it runs way too quickly to be safe in my book. And it pounces at your face like some sort of psychotic, serial-killing cat. If you want to change it's target, or make it say some sort of catchphrase whilst it brings about terror and destruction, or even if you want to make it dance the Macarena, you can figure out how to do it from the enclosed diagrams. Which are on the pale blue sheets of paper by the way.**

**Hmm. Lets see, what else… Oh! In the lilac envelope there are about thirty pictures of McLaggen falling off his broomstick in second year after being attacked by a sparrow. It's more fun to watch in person, but the picture still communicates most of the highlights. If you want a more complete version of events, just picture him screaming like a girl the whole time.**

**There's a crystal phial filled with a colourless, odourless, mostly tasteless liquid (apparently tastes slightly of citrus but not so anyone would notice). This is a potion which will basically make McLaggen (or anyone who ingests it really) lose any semblance of control over their bladder. The effects will last for about twelve hours straight. During this time it occurs to me that you may want to keep the subject away from anything silk.**

**The phial doesn't have a colour or an envelope. It's quite upsetting. Hang on. There. Now it's got a dark purple ribbon. Much better.**

**I think that's about it. Wait, Sirius is glaring at me…**

**Oh ALL RIGHT! Grr. Stupid jumped up, gecko-threatening jackass. Included in the envelope (which at this rate will have to be magically reinforced, I mean honestly) are eight pieces of dark green paper. Except they aren't paper. They're a test which I made up last year when I got bored in Potions.**

**It's basically based on the Litmus test… which you have no idea about, right. Magical upbringing. Okay, you don't need to know what a Litmus test is. The fact is that if you tear a tiny (and I do mean tiny, couple millimetres in diameter should do it) piece of this stuff and put it in anything you're about to ingest. Food, drink, even toothpaste. It'll evaporate in a puff of smoke. If this smoke is the same green colour as it was when it was 'paper' then the food, drink, or whatever is safe to eat. If it evaporates in a puff of bright blue smoke then there's a potion in it, if it evaporates in a puff of bright red smoke there's a poison in it, and if it evaporates in a puff of red smoke there's a non-harmful, non-magical foreign compound in it.**

**If this foreign compound is something like, I don't know… salt. Then it won't show up. If it's something like an extra-strength laxative or powdered maggots then it'll go red. If it goes up in white smoke then there's more than one of these categories in your food, drink or whatever and you should basically run like hell.**

**Please note, these are my very last ones and I won't be able to make anymore until December because of the length of time it'll take to brew all the component parts.**

**In the grey envelope, Peter has compiled a selection of alibis for you along with medically proved reasons why you couldn't possibly have played a part in anything we've said so far. It also has a few things to get you, or anyone in your cabin, out of your daily duties without actually having to see a medical professional. He's quite diabolical in his approach to getting out of trouble really.**

**Right. That's all. I think.**

**Oh no, Sirius has another last minute addition…**

**Yuck! Yuck, yuck, yuck, that's disgusting! What sort of lunatic comes up with that sort of thing? I mean seriously. UNHINGED! Completely and utterly deranged. Crazy. Insane. Mad. Psychotic. Maniacal. Bananas. Totally and utterly whacko. The man is nuts. And bolts! And dangerous. And is never getting near my food again. Gross, gross, gross.**

**Your (UNHINGED) Best Friend has devised a 'party trick' as he calls it. He has just demonstrated how easily a flubberworm dipped in melted chocolate can be made to resemble a marshmallow dipped in chocolate. Personally, I could live a long and happy life without ever seeing him do so again. His logic is that with a quick Discernment Charm and an Incandescent Incantation, you will be able to see which is which while nobody else can.**

**He's shrunk everything you need and included diagrams (on the orange paper) in the envelope.**

**In other news, I've sworn off fondue. And marshmallows. And chocolate. Okay, maybe not chocolate. But that other stuff definitely. Because that was just… unwholesome.**

**Right. Nothing else I've been ordered to transcribe by these interlopers. Hmm. Suppose I should actually respond to your letter to me now that they've all shut up. (And started cleaning up if they know what's good for them.)**

**Ha. You know if the vulture comment wasn't true, I'd have to curse you for it. Regrettably, however, it is. Just be thankful you don't have to live with her. Or her impossibly wide fiancé.**

**Anyway, I'm glad that the girl isn't completely incapable of talking. And also that she can swear fluently in two languages. It comes in terribly handy. Then again, if she really is as scary as you seem to think she is then she wouldn't have much need for it either way.**

**Regrettably, I can't tell you why McLaggen is afraid of me. Well, I suppose I could but I'm not going to. Mainly because that would count as written evidence and that's just not something I'm prepared to risk. Though I can absolutely assure you, that ape never got within twenty feet of me. **

**Now, if you'll excuse me, I actually intend to shower sometime tonight and the only way I'm going to do that is if Remus fixes that hole in the wall.**

**Signed:**

**Lily Marie Evans (Who is apparently not going to be showering tonight.)**

**Sirius Cygnus Black (Who is NOT "unhinged"!)**

**Remus John Lupin (Who is inclined to agree with Ms Evans on the Teddy Bear thing…)**

**And Peter Pettigrew (Who sort of wishes he had a middle name now.)**

- -

_Trying his very hardest to ignore the last signature on the page, Harry leant back in his chair yawning hugely._

_It was coming up for ten to eleven. The Dursleys, who were rarely up that late anyway, were making very obvious 'Going to Bed' noises. Deciding that they had the right idea, and that he'd perform the arduous task of actually thinking about the letter his mother penned the next day. After a good night's rest (hopefully) and a plate of scrambled eggs and toast for breakfast (assuming he managed to get to the kitchen when there was no one else in there). In that same theme, he tidied away the papers to peruse them again the following morning._

_Harry checked outside quickly, to make sure Hedwig wasn't waiting to be let in. But no, she still hadn't been allowed back. He mentally insulted the Aurors or Order Members (which ever) that were responsible for her absence, but he was too tired to put much venom behind it._

_Stifling yet another yawn, he kicked off his trainers and yanked off his socks. Outside in the hallway he heard Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon wishing Aunt Marge goodnight on the landing. Dudley, he presumed, had just gone to bed then. Once again, he didn't especially care about his cousin's comings and goings. He yanked off his t-shirt and was just about to pull off his jeans and glasses when he heard an almighty crash, just outside his bedroom door._

_His hand immediately slipped to his wand as he burst out into the hallway. Aunt Marge was on the floor writhing in agony. The other Dursleys were nowhere to be seen. If they were being attacked it was from outside, surely since there wasn't enough room in the hallway to… Uh-oh._

_Harry cringed. They weren't being attacked. Aunt Marge was on the floor in a puddle of water, surrounded by the remnants of his discarded glass. He managed to shove his wand into his back pocket again before Petunia and Vernon appeared out in the hall, closely followed by a scared-looking Dudley. The wand wasn't completely hidden, of course, since he didn't have a t-shirt on, but it was better than nothing._

"_What happened? What did you do?" Uncle Vernon demanded threateningly. Harry rolled his eyes._

"_I didn't do anything. She slipped."_

"_A likely story!" Vernon bellowed. The man was like a cartoon, Harry thought disdainfully. Over in the corner, Dudley's beady little eyes landed on the broken bits of glass and water on the floor. He looked back up at Harry and grinned maliciously. Harry suppressed another eye roll and bent to help Aunt Marge up._

"_Did you cut yourself?" he asked in a bored voice, silently hoping that she had and would therefore think Privet Drive to dangerous to stick around for._

"_Don't be silly boy!" Aunt Marge snapped as Harry threw all his weight back in an attempt to haul her ample frame back into an upright position. He semi-succeeded but he couldn't help but think it would've been a lot easier for Dudley or Vernon to do. Heaven forefend they actually do something useful, he thought sardonically. "I've taken worse spills than that you stupid little- Oh!" _

_Aunt Marge had tried to push Harry away, overbalanced and gone crashing to the ground again. Harry dearly wanted to leave her in a crumpled heap down there, but the glare he received from Uncle Vernon dissuaded him. Bracing himself, he bent down again and heaved with all his might. Aunt Marge finally got in a vaguely upright position. Though Harry couldn't help but think that, with her girth, the only way you could really tell she was upright was because of where her head stuck out of her rotund body._

_He was just about to excuse himself and go back into his bedroom when Dudley, in the most innocent tone imaginable, said "How did you fall Aunt Marge?"_

_Harry glared at his cousin, who wore and expression which clearly stated he would've fluttered his eyelashes angelically if he thought he could get away with it and keep his reputation intact._

"_I just took a tumble!" Marge announced stoutly. "Nothing to worry about Dudders!"_

_Dudley cocked his head to one side, and Harry resisted the urge to punch him. "Really Aunt Marge? I thought you slipped on all that water." he commented._

_Vernon, Petunia and Marge all glanced down at the floor in one movement. Harry was actually amazed that the woman hadn't noticed it before. After all, when he landed in a large puddle of water he usually didn't need someone else to point it out to him._

"_Well I'll be. What the devil is water doing all the way over here? The bathroom's at the other end of the hall." Uncle Vernon queried. Harry raised his eyes skyward and clenched his fists as Dudley spelled it out for his father._

"_Say, Harry, didn't you have a glass of water when you came upstairs?" Dudley asked guilelessly._

_There was a moment of silence before, "I knew it! I knew it! The boy's dangerous! He could've killed me!" Aunt Marge yelled. Harry raised his eyebrow at her._

"_I thought you said you weren't hurt?" he pointed out._

"_I said no such thing! I'm in agony!" Aunt Marge hollered. Harry sighed as the rest of the family started yelling about his dangerous tendencies too. _

"_Delinquent!"_

"_Trouble-maker!"_

_  
"Good for nothing-"_

"_Foolish-"_

"_Brainless-"_

"_Useless-"_

"_Son of a drunken-"_

_As the abuse continued to be hurled at him, Harry was suddenly very aware of the fact that he was half naked in a hallway with a group of people who quite categorically detested him. He closed his eyes for a moment and inhaled deeply._

"_All right would you all just Shut Up!" he yelled. Surprisingly enough, everyone did. Probably out of shock rather than out of some urge to bow to his wishes, Harry knew, but he'd take what he could get. "Look, I did throw that glass away and I did forget to clean it up. I admit it. It's not like I went and pushed you down the stairs though."_

"_Oh really. And just what were you doing that was so much more important than cleaning up a potentially dangerous spillage of water!" Aunt Marge demanded._

_Looking straight at Uncle Vernon and leaving no doubt as to his meaning, Harry said "Homework." Despite turning a very interesting puce colour, Vernon didn't say anything. Aunt Petunia glared at him while Marge scoffed derisively._

"_You expect us to believe that you, you little idiot, were so absorbed in your- AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!"_

_Harry spun to look at his Aunt who was… er… mental. She had dropped to her knees and adopted what could be easily referred to as the 'Brace Position' on an aeroplane. Harry frowned and looked around blindly, trying to spot something that would elicit such a reaction. For the life of him he couldn't see anything that would make someone scream like a banshee though._

_He did, however, see that Hedwig had returned and had apparently entered through the hall window. "Hi Hedwig!" he grinned broadly as the snowy white owl hooted in a dignified manner before landing happily on his shoulder. Which, given his current state of undress, was actually quite painful. She had two letters attached to her leg, one he recognised as being written in Ron's handwriting and the other which held the Ministry of Magic's official seal._

_Still grinning, he turned back to try and figure out what Marge was yelling about. He was met with a volcanic looking Uncle Vernon and Aunt Marge pointing at him in horror while mouthing wordlessly._

"_Ooooooooooooooh." It dawned on Harry that having a large Snowy Owl swooping into one's hallway might be a little odd for some people. He tried to urge Hedwig into his room but she was rather resolute about staying put. Harry started inching into his room himself when, from down the hall, the sound of wings was quite distinctly heard._

_Harry frowned in confusion before remembering his Daily Prophet subscription. "Uh-oh." he muttered dumbly._

_The past fourteen days worth of Daily Prophets came hurtling down the corridor at them. Each with it's own individual owl from the looks of things. And a few other pieces of mail as well. _

_Aunt Marge screamed so loud, Harry's ears rang. Dudley attempted to back into his room but simply succeeded in smashing his head off a wall. Aunt Petunia yelped in alarm and ducked her head, while Uncle Vernon lunged straight for Harry._

"_Vernon! Vernon! You know how I feel about birds Vernon!" Aunt Marge whimpered while swiping uselessly at the birds. Harry ducked out of his Uncle's way and forcefully shoved Hedwig into his room, yelling at her to stay in there, for fear of her safety. He held the door open, trying to entice the birds into his room rather than having them flap around their heads in the hallway._

_The owls were having none of it. From the looks of things, they'd been held in rather rough conditions for the past two weeks and were relishing their freedom once more. Several actually seemed to be taunting Aunt Marge by flying near to her head and evading her, now fairly frantic, swipes. _

"_You did this on purpose boy!" Vernon bellowed._

"_I bloody well did not!" Harry bellowed back, ducking under yet another one of Vernon's attacks. Aunt Marge had got a hold of a vase from Aunt Petunia's sideboard and was now waving it at the owls and letting out some sort of battle cry. "Oi! Don't do that!" Harry told her in alarm as she connected with a medium sized barn owl, sending it to the floor with a thump._

_Aunt Marge's eyes took on a manic gleam as she regarded the owl on the floor. Aunt Petunia yelped once more and started ushering Dudley away from the bedlam currently taking place in the hallway. When that didn't work, she attempted to shield him from view. Had Harry not been quite so preoccupied, he would have certainly found this amusing. Regrettably, the owls seemed to have taken Marge's attack as a sign of ill-intent and were becoming quite overtly hostile to the humans in the hall._

"_You'll pay for this you little-" Harry didn't hear the rest of Vernon's threat, as a large Eagle Owl attempted to claw his eyes out._

_Ducking and weaving as best as he could, Harry darted over to Aunt Marge and grabbed a hold of the vase in her hands and attempted to wrestle out of her grasp. "You're just getting them angry you moron!" he grunted, pulling valiantly, but he doubted she heard him over her continuing howls of aggression._

_A horned owl attempted to claw at Harry's forearm, momentarily preventing him from his continued wrestling match with Aunt Marge. He grunted in pain and gripped the broken skin, glaring at the owl in question. It circled above him before making to attack again. From behind him, Harry heard an outraged shriek._

_He spun around just in time to see Hedwig dive down on the Horned owl, pinning it to floor looking murderous. Harry grinned slightly and returned his attention to Aunt Marge. She was watching the display with wide eyes. He took the opportunity to snatch the vase out of her clutches and toss it into the Guest Bedroom, away from all the owls._

_Aunt Marge snapped back and yelled again, making a fairly obvious dive for him. On Harry's left Uncle Vernon, who had obviously dealt with his Eagle Owl, was making a similar noise. Five years of Quidditch training with the Weasley twins, however, had made Harry well aware of how to duck two large objects intent on killing you horribly. He leapt through the pair of them and came up in a large swarm of around twelve infuriated owls._

_Aunt Marge and Uncle Vernon collided with a loud crash which sent Marge reeling back into a wall, while sending Vernon toppling over. He landed in the puddle of water still on the floor and went skidding directly over to Aunt Petunia and Dudley. The three of them hurtled into the sideboard at the end of the hall, a tangle of limbs letting out some fairly creative expletives._

_Harry, however, had no time to enjoy any of this given the dozen angry owls currently around him. "Couldn't have just left the t-shirt on, could I?" he snapped in irritation, as yet another owl attempted to shred any bit of skin it could reach. Within a second, Hedwig was over beside him screeching aggressively at any bird who attempted to harm him. Harry may have been imagining it, but he also got the impression she was scolding him for getting himself surrounded in the first place. _

"_It's not my fault you know!" he told her defensively. "It was either this or getting crushed to death by the Dursleys, would you have liked that better?" Hedwig gave him a slightly affronted look before returning to clawing at any owl that came within a metre of him._

_Marge was back on her feet and trying to kill every living creature in the hallway. "Nothing more than flying vermin! That's what you are!" she yelled hysterically._

_Harry growled in frustration, raised his hands to protect his head and ran headlong into Aunt Marge's stomach, sending her flying. Without even looking to see how she landed, he grabbed his wand and raised it into the air. _

_Every owl there immediately stopped their attacks and landed on the floor, eyeing it warily. Hedwig fluttered over and sat on his shoulder once again, with a satisfied sort of air about her. She even gave a smug little hoot of victory. Harry found he didn't mind her claws digging into his should so much this time and, in fact, found it nothing short of comforting when compared to the damage that had been done to the rest of him._

_He pointed the wand to indicate his room. "Leave your deliveries in there, then get out." he ordered impatiently. The owls moved for his room obediently. Harry tucked his wand away once more and turned to see what had happened to Aunt Marge. She was sprawled out, seemingly unconscious at the top of the stairs. At the other end of the hall, the Dursleys were cowering in fear, all appearing a startlingly similar ashen grey._

_Harry watched as the owls began to exit his room. Flying in formation, every single one of them swooped down on Marge, grabbed a hold of her clothing and carried her a few feet forwards. They let go and dumped her limp form at the bottom of the stairs before darting out the hall window and flying into the night._

_Harry closed his eyes and let out a breath before turning to face the quivering Dursleys. The looked up at him with eyes like saucers…_

_Harry grinned brightly at them. "Well. Goodnight!" he called cheerfully. _

_Then he turned and legged it into his room as fast as was humanly possible. As soon as he entered the room, Hedwig fluttered over to her perch gratefully. For his part, Harry slammed the door shut behind him and heaved his trunk in front of it. He once again considered pulling his bed in front of the door as well but decided against it._

_After all he'd be sleeping there and he probably wouldn't be able to sleep if he moved the bed._

_That said, he moved every other bit of furniture in the room to block his doorway. "So…" he started casually as soon as he was finished. "Welcome home Hedwig."_


	9. Before the trainwreck

**Disclaimer:** … I think you all know what I'm going to say.  
**Note:** Why do the Dursleys support Aston Villa? Because they were the first football team that came to mind. I do not support Aston Villa, nor do I have anything against Aston Villa. I am Aston Villa neutral.

* * *

The day that followed could be described as "an experience". It could also be described as a Train Wreck, but the phrase "an experience" left Harry feeling slightly less inclined to curse things, and so he chose to refer to it as such.

The first thing to go seriously wrong, though it was not obvious until much later, was his first encounter with the Dursleys.

When Harry first awoke it was still dark. The glowing red readout from his clock told him it was shortly after five o'clock in the morning. He had vague memories of a dream which, for some bizarre reason, centred around Professor Snape and Professor Sprout getting married, adopting Neville Longbottom and living happily ever after in the Honeydukes basement… but he chose to ignore that. Any strange dreams he had at that point could be easily attributed to stress, since he was certainly under enough of it.

Harry also refused to acknowledge being in any way disappointed that his dreams hadn't consisted of something more interesting, like, say for example, his late father or Lord Voldemort's secret plans.

As he tried to rid his mind of any lingering images of Snape and Neville at a Chudley Cannons game (complete with matching bright orange novelty hats, he hastened to add), Harry crawled out of bed. He grabbed his glasses and put them on. Hedwig was fast asleep in her cage, and Harry knew that the bright light from his bedside lamp would wake her up. He groped around for his clothing in the dark instead, hoping to let her sleep. After her performance the previous night, the very least she deserved was a nice long nap. This idiotic piece of polite and considerate rubbish led to him injuring himself no less than thirteen times in the process of getting dressed, but that was hardly the point.

He had a very simple course of action planned out in his mind: get up, go downstairs, get something to eat, and be back upstairs before the Dursleys or Aunt Marge could even open an eyelid. It was an undeniably simple plan, and yet it still made Harry frown in confusion. Perhaps it had been the categorising of Aunt Marge as separate from the Dursleys that had done it.

The woman _was_ technically a Dursley and, as such, could technically be included in the label "The Dursleys", Harry supposed. But for some reason that didn't seem quite right to him. Perhaps it was because he'd spent his childhood referring to them as _The Dursleys_. Perhaps it was because Aunt Marge felt like an intruder. Perhaps it was because the thought of including that woman in his 'family' was too traumatising to deal with. Whatever it was, it didn't sit right with Harry.

Shaking his head firmly and blaming such useless thoughts on lack of sleep (and the ephemeral image of Neville calling Snape "Daddy"), Harry unburied his barricaded bedroom door and crept downstairs as quietly as possible. He didn't need a plan of action to get breakfast, for goodness sake. Defeating Voldemort, catching the snitch, avoiding Hermione when she was on the revision rampage; these things required deliberation. Breakfast did not. And so he walked downstairs, and refused to let any premeditative thoughts on the matter enter his mind.

Harry saw the kitchen light was on. He quickly tried to convince himself that the light had just been left on the previous night, in all the confusion. This optimism was quickly dashed as he heard voices emanating from inside. He wondered vaguely if it was worth hoping that the Order had come to rescue him again.

"The boy'll pay for this!" Uncle Vernon's low voice growled.

Nope. Definitely not the Order. Uncle Vernon was incapable of enunciating that clearly around wizards.

As Harry inched closer to the doorway he saw all three of the Dursleys sitting around the kitchen table, still in the pyjamas they'd been wearing when last Harry saw them. This indicated either that they hadn't gone to bed yet, as they'd been too busy bemoaning his existence, or that they had suddenly decided to become morning people. Harry's bets were firmly on the former.

Aunt Petunia appeared to be making pancake batter at the table, while Uncle Vernon fumed beside her. Dudley was sitting opposite the pair of them with such a glazed expression on his face. Seeing this expression, Harry seriously wondered if Dudley could sleep with his eyes open. It was a skill which Harry was starting to consider cultivating. Merlin knew it would help him get through encounters with Uncle Vernon.

"Setting those feathery brutes on my only sister! The little brat!" Vernon grunted. His moustache quivered as he spoke.

Harry balked at that comment. He had hardly set the owls on anyone. If he had been capable of setting them on anyone, then why the hell would he have a torso that was more scratched up than Mad-eye Moody? Idiots.

"And then smirking and running off to his room like some sort of coward!" Uncle Vernon hissed.

_That_ comment, on the other hand, Harry was a little more inclined to agree with. Not that he'd smirked, because he was quite certain he hadn't, and not that he'd run off like a coward, because (three-headed dogs aside) he hadn't run off from anything in a cowardly fashion since he was eleven. Rather, he'd run off like someone who knew no good could come of staying and was too weary to even try by that point. But let Uncle Vernon slant it any way he saw fit. Harry didn't care. He had more important things to worry about.

He sauntered into the kitchen, the picture of health and harmony. "Morning." he greeted cheerfully.

Conversation ceased immediately, but the Dursleys seemed a little too stunned to respond for a moment. Harry used the time to go over to the bread-bin and snag a couple of slices before moving towards the toaster. A boy had to eat, after all, no matter how insane his adoptive family may be.

"Morning?" Vernon repeated slowly. "_Morning_? You'd better explain yourself, boy!" he snarled.

Harry paused in the middle of the kitchen and looked at his Uncle. His Uncle who was suddenly standing, and was attempting to look intimidating. Somehow, after spending the night dreaming about Professors Snape and Sprout's honeymoon album, the effect was lost on Harry. It took a lot more than Uncle Vernon to scare him after _those_ mental images. "Explain what?" he asked, nonplussed.

He wasn't being insolent (well all right, he was being a little insolent), he just genuinely did not understand what Uncle Vernon was asking him. Glancing around the kitchen, Harry noted that Aunt Petunia looked too tired to care what was happening while Dudley was slowly coming around to the Land of the Undeniably Conscious and looking more than a little irritated about it. Ah well. Some family bonding about how much they hated Harry was in order then. How touching. There should be a Hallmark card for it or something.

Harry fought off an eye roll.

"Explain what? EXPLAIN WHAT?!" Vernon raged.

"Uncle Vernon, could you keep your voice down?" Harry asked patiently. "We do have _neighbours_ you know." Honestly, the man was so inconsiderate. Had someone made that sort of noise in the Gryffindor common room before six AM they would've been cursed into a gelatinous substance.

Not that Harry really cared what the neighbours thought of them. The point was that endangering the Dursleys' social standing was one sure-fire way to getting them to behave. Indeed, the word 'neighbours' had hardly left Harry's mouth when Aunt Petunia abandoned her pancake mix and practically threw herself at the window to check they hadn't woken anyone up. Uncle Vernon's beady little eyes darted around nervously, as though half expecting a SWAT team to come down on upon him at any moment. Dudley, for his part, was gazing between his mother and her abandoned pancake mix with an incredulous air. Meanwhile, Harry's toast started to smell like toast rather than bread. He wished it would hurry up so he could make his escape, but Uncle Vernon seemingly had other ideas.

Ah well. He'd settled in for the long haul then. Harry grabbed a glass from one of the cupboards and went to pour himself some orange juice from the fridge. Uncle Vernon regained what little composure he could claim in the first place and began talking again, in much more restrained voice. "Just what in the blazes did you think you were doing when you set those things on Marge?" he ground out.

"I didn't set them on her." Harry told him without emotion. "I had nothing to do with it. If she hadn't started attacking them with that vase then they wouldn't have done anything to her. It was her fault."

Uncle Vernon appeared to swell, like an indignant balloon. "How dare you-" he began, taking a threatening step towards him.

Harry's toast popped up. Uncle Vernon sprang back in horror and visibly deflated.

Harry considered it a credit to his increased maturity that he didn't snigger at the man, and instead just went about buttering his toast. Though he didn't expect Uncle Vernon to be attempting to act intimidating for another few minutes. Indeed, his Uncle was trying desperately to return his breathing to normal. But, alas, Harry was never to hear what exactly it was Uncle Vernon had to say. True, he could make an educated guess, but the actual words themselves were forever lost because at that very moment, Aunt Marge could be heard thudding slowly down the stairs.

The Dursleys all looked horrified. Harry himself felt pretty horrified, but for a different reason. Firstly, it hadn't really occurred to him that he would have to face the woman whom he'd watched get thrown down the stairs by a flock of angry owls, just a few hours before. Secondly, it certainly hadn't occurred to him that he would have to come up with an explanation for the aforementioned owl incident. And thirdly, Aunt Marge always made him feel more than a little horrified just on principle.

Thud.

Down she came.

Clunk.

Another step closer.

Thud.

At least a foot and a half nearer than she was when she first made a sound. Across the room, something seemed to snap in Aunt Petunia. "Act natural!" she hissed to the room as a whole.

Harry looked himself up and down. He was already acting natural. Good for him. Apparently Aunt Petunia felt that she had not been acting natural, as she proceeded to rearrange her hairnet faster than Harry had ever seen her do so before. She then snatched up the pancake batter and dove towards the cooker, shoving him out of the way as she went. It would have been quite impressive, had she not shoved Harry directly into the countertop, winding him quite effectively. Uncle Vernon quickly sat down at the breakfast table. He grabbed a Sunday supplement magazine and began pretending to read it.

Dudley, like Harry, simply sat there looking utterly bewildered as to how one could _act_ natural.

Just as Harry's midsection was recovering from the sudden blow, a bleary-eyed Marge appeared in the doorway, wearing a hideously striped, mustard-coloured dressing gown. Somehow, Harry felt that being winded was more fun than looking at her.

"Oh. Good morning Marge!" Aunt Petunia chirped in a faux cheerful voice as she bustled around the cooker. "Did, ah, did you sleep well?" Aunt Petunia asked. Harry noted the oddly strained way she asked the question as well as the decidedly nervous expression on Uncle Vernon's face, and realised instantly how they were going to take care of the Owl Incident. In rather the same way they had intended to take care of Harry's 'abnormality' - Ignore it and hope it will go away.

Marge, however, clearly didn't notice anything out of the ordinary. "Mornin' Petunia." she grunted, taking a seat at the table and yawning hugely. "Funny you should mention sleep though." she added, looking around tiredly.

Everyone in the kitchen, even Dudley, leant in a little at this point.

"One of the best night's sleeps I've ever had actually." Marge continued. "Some funny dreams though." Aunt Petunia visibly relaxed while the colour returned to Uncle Vernon's face. Harry, however, found himself a little disappointed that every time he taught that old battleaxe a lesson she had to go and forget it. Granted he hadn't technically been responsible for the owl incident, but that was hardly relevant. He still enjoyed watching her get knocked down to size.

"Good. That's good to hear." Aunt Petunia said loudly. "Vernon, isn't that good to hear?"

"Very good to hear Petunia." Uncle Vernon said in the same, over-bright tone.

"Dudley?"

"T'riffic." Dudley responded dully.

"And… um… dreams, you say Marge?" Petunia asked tentatively. Once again, everyone seemed to lean in. Harry was beginning to feel distinctly as though he were in a pantomime or some such. He was half expecting Widow Twanky to show up at any moment.

Aunt Marge waved her hand dismissively. "Oh some nonsense about birds or some such. And another one about Colonel Fubster's Christmas Party last year." she chortled loudly. "Oh there was a lot of booze flowing that year I tell you. In fact, this old friend of the Colonel's, Major Krip, got up on the table wearing nothing but a…" Marge cut off abruptly and looked at Dudley. "Well, eh, maybe later, eh Petunia?" she told her, as though this were something to look forward to.

Harry felt his stomach churn at the various mental images that sprang to mind. Indeed, Aunt Petunia had turned a delicate shade of vermilion at the thought, while Dudley himself was still staring off into the middle distance, not even pretending to care.

"Er… quite." Aunt Petunia said at last. "Pancakes?"

Shockingly enough, Dudley perked up at that.

"Just a couple Petunia." Aunt Marge said, looking over to the cooker where Petunia stood. Then came the moment Harry knew was coming - Aunt Marge's piggy little eyes fell on him and narrowed instantly with distaste. He turned around and pretended to be immensely interested in buttering his toast. "Still here, are you?" she snarled behind him.

Harry rolled his eyes, secure in the knowledge that she couldn't see him. "No I immigrated to Timbuktu in the middle of the night. Surprised you didn't hear the helicopter." he muttered under his breath. "Yes Aunt Marge." he said more loudly. Aunt Petunia had obviously heard him, but she didn't say anything. Instead she rolled her own eyes at his behaviour, seemingly more annoyed with Marge than she was with him.

Harry also noticed that she too was paying a bit too much attention to making the breakfast. Evidently, he and his Aunt Petunia had finally found their common ground: Loathing Marge Dursley. What a weird idea.

"Hmm." Marge said suspiciously. Harry could just envisage her scowling at his back. "Well. Vernon. What were you yelling about earlier? Probably woke up the neighbourhood old boy." she chortled. "Surely Aston Villa didn't lose again?"

Tension rose immediately once again. Harry mentally repeated his earlier comparison of the situation to a pantomime. It was quite comically pathetic really; every time the room gave a collective - -albeit metaphorical- - sigh of relief, Aunt Marge would hike the tension again. Or at least she did with Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon. Harry didn't care. Nor, apparently, did Dudley.

"No, Marge." Uncle Vernon said in a would-be casual tone. "No, no. Actually they won one-nil."

"Glad to hear it. Are you making tea by any chance Petunia?"

"Certainly Marge." Aunt Petunia said without interest. Her attention was still clearly focused on ensuring that Aunt Marge didn't suddenly leap for the phone, call up the Daily Mail and inform the world that Harry was a wizard. Having a nephew who was criminally insane, that was one thing, but having one who flew on broomsticks was quite another.

"Good good." Aunt Marge said. "Come now Vernon, what had you all in uproar earlier? Woke me up it did. I think I have a right to know." she announced.

Harry was very tempted to turn around, wag his finger and tell Aunt Marge not to ask questions. The only thing that prevented him from doing so was the certain knowledge that he wouldn't eat for a month if he did, and the disinclination he had to say anything reminiscent of the Dursleys, even in order to taunt one of them. And so, while he didn't wag his finger or scold his 'Aunt', he did turn around.

He was met with the pleasant sight of Uncle Vernon gripping his Sunday Supplement so tightly the ink was starting to print onto his sweaty hands. His eyes were darting around again.

It was a joy to behold. "I… er… well… I… um…" he stammered. '_A real criminal mastermind, that one_' Harry thought sarcastically.

Aunt Marge seemingly came to a similar conclusion, as she turned to face Dudley. "Dudders? Why was your daddy yelling?" she asked.

Dudley took the more direct approach and just shrugged. "I don't know Aunt Marge, I was in the bathroom." he said simply. He just passed off responsibility without any thought to his parents' dilemma. Harry respected the simplicity of his response if nothing else, as it certainly hadn't stopped Marge. Though, just for a moment, Harry thought he saw something that looked almost like contemplation going on behind Dudley's piggy eyes.

"Petunia?" she asked, more than a little suspicious by this point.

Harry took his eyes off Dudley to look at Aunt Petunia, and by the time he looked back at his cousin the glazed look had returned. Harry shrugged it off as his imagination.

When Aunt Petunia also refused to answer her, Aunt Marge decided to fill in the blanks herself. "What's the little runt done this time?" she demanded, glaring at Harry with distaste.

For reasons that he didn't quite comprehend, Harry glared straight back at her.

He'd never glared at Aunt Marge before; not really. He had made sarcastic comments, but most of them were under his breath and even when they weren't he had felt compelled to look away. Indeed, most of his interactions with Aunt Marge had either involved him fixing his gaze on a point somewhere around her left ear or him staring resolutely at the floor. But right at that particular moment, Harry gave into the urge to glare right at her.

Looking back on it, that was probably his first mistake.

Aunt Marge had looked slightly alarmed. Harry had been informed that his glare had become rather frightening in recent years and so he wasn't exactly surprised at the reaction. Aunt Marge dithered a moment before clearly deciding that it was just a fluke and not something to be too worried about. Since Harry's wand was upstairs, she was probably right. "Always causing some sort of trouble, you lot." she muttered, still glowering at him. "I don't know how Vernon and Petunia put up with you. Don't think they haven't told me about you." she said, gesturing at Harry. "They got letters home about you. Little miscreant. Even Saint Brutus's can't keep you in check."

Harry raised his eyebrows at that and shot a look towards Aunt Petunia. She had taken a sudden interest in the ceiling. Letters home? Harry thought incredulously. Umbridge had sent home letters? Or maybe they'd received letters home about him in the Triwizard Tournament. Or perhaps they had received letters about the situation with Sirius. Actually, now that he thought about it, the Dursleys probably got a lot of letters home. But still, Harry thought he should've been hearing about them before Aunt Marge. Aunt Marge who was still droning on and gesticulating at him.

"Back in the day, criminals like you would've been swinging from the gallows my boy. You'd have been in the noose before your twentieth, mark my words. All this touchy-feely nonsense is the only thing that keeps you breathing." she proclaimed loudly, slamming a meaty fist down onto the table for emphasis. "Why, if I had it my way, delinquents like you would-"

Not particularly wanting to hear what would happen to delinquents like him if Aunt Marge had it her way, Harry smacked his empty glass of orange down onto the counter. "Well!" he exclaimed loudly. "That sounds delightful Aunt Marge, really it does. Hope you enjoy your pancakes. Bye then." He strode confidently to the door in a deliberately over-dramatic manner, just to drive the point home.

He practically flew up the stairs. Behind him he heard Aunt Marge beginning to fume about the impertinence shown by teenagers today. Harry really couldn't have cared less.

He walked into his room and took one last munch of the toast in his hand, before tossing it into Hedwig's cage. She made a quiet noise of appreciation to indicate that, while she was awake, she was far from active. He then flicked on his table lamp, to illuminate the room.

Whilst there was a greenish tinge appearing on the horizon, it was hardly enough to read by. And Harry had a lot of reading to do. There was a pile of post sitting on his desk. The top one, which Hedwig had delivered, held the Ministry of Magic's seal. Harry recognised it from the previous night. Deciding he may as well get it over with, Harry took a seat at the desk and started on the pile.

Harry didn't know what he was expecting the Ministry of Magic to say to him. 'Good on you', perhaps. Or 'sorry we ignored you'. Maybe even a 'thanks for letting us know about that all-powerful lunatic bent on genocide that recently popped back from the dead to wreak terror and mayhem down upon us'. Whatever he was expecting, however, he certainly didn't get it.

**Dear Mr. Potter, **

**We at the Ministry Of Magic felt that it was in your best interests to cease any owl deliveries to your address for a short while until measures could be put in place to ensure your safety. This cessation extended to all personal deliveries and subscriptions. All deliveries should reach you in due course, however, and if you suspect that any items are missing then please contact the Ministry as soon as possible.**

**Yours sincerely,**

**Some Prat.**

Harry re-read it a few times, disbelievingly. Those cheeky gits hadn't even mentioned Lord Voldemort. They felt perfectly comfortable locking up his owl _because_ of Lord Voldemort, but they refused to accept fault in the matter. Typical.

He tossed the letter into the bin with disgust and snatched up a letter from Ron.

**Harry, I don't have much time to write this since I just found out they were hijacking your post a minute ago. Dad tried to get the Ministry to let Hedwig stay with us, but they were having none of it. Send me a letter when you get this so I can tell Hermione when we can contact you again. She'll have a fit when she finds out they're locking Hedwig up. We'll be forced to join the Protection Society for the Year-round Constitution and Health of Owls next ("_It's P-S-Y-C-H-O not 'psycho'. Honestly!_" I can see it now).**

**Write me, sharpish.**

**Ron.**

As if reading his mind, Hedwig made an annoyed sound from across the room as if to say 'Never gonna happen'.

Harry smiled. "How about later on tonight?" he asked.

She made a clicking noise which Harry took as a yes.

When he thought about it, it was actually fortunate that he wasn't being forced to write back to Ron immediately. It would give him time to think about what he should ask him. He couldn't very well ask for the current location of Sofia Ivanova without giving Ron an explanation as to why. And until Harry himself figured out why he wanted to write to the woman, he certainly couldn't tell Ron.

The thought had actually been brewing in the back of his mind since he discovered her identity. He had the ability to find one of the people his father had been mentioning in his journal and for some reason didn't think he could pass that up. What if, for example, he wrote to her and explained the situation and she told him that everything that happened that year was deeply personal and she didn't want him reading any more? Or what if he wrote to her and she wanted to hear from him? What if she'd seen him in the Top Box and just not known how to approach him? Worse still, what if she'd seen him in the Top Box and deliberately avoided him?

Here he had a chance to get an unbiased version of what his father was like. Between Sirius, Snape, Lupin, Aunt Petunia and Dumbledore, unbiased opinions were becoming harder and harder to find when it came to his father. Everybody had an opinion on the man. Miss Ivanova, however, didn't seem the type to be easily swayed either way.

Harry had to admit that he, himself, was extremely biased because he _wanted_ to like the man.

It occurred to him that it was quite strange to spend so much time and energy focussed on making peace with the memory of his late father, when he knew for a fact that Lord Voldemort was out there actively trying to kill him. Had Hermione been there he would have felt the need to analyse this fact, but as it was Harry just went with it.

Pushing such taxing thoughts out of his mind and pushing Ron's letter literally aside, he resolved to write his response later.

The rest of the post he'd received seemed to be composed mainly of Daily Prophets and pamphlets from the Ministry detailing how best to avoid a bloody death at the hands of the Death Eaters. Thrilled though Harry was that the Ministry no-longer wanted him killed horribly, he couldn't claim any particular interest in any of it. He'd read it later. That left a copy of the Quibbler with a note attached, and a yellowing scroll of parchment with astoundingly neat handwriting that looked suspiciously like the first note he'd received from Professor Lupin.

Harry dragged the Quibbler over first. He expected that anything Luna had to say would be easier to deal with than anything Professor Lupin had to say. Within a few short seconds he was proved to be right. While Luna's note was still held within its envelope and tied to the magazine, the cover of the publication was clearly visible. The main headline read:

**BLIBBERING HUMDINGER SPOTTED IN THE SUEZ CANAL**

Beside this bizarre pronouncement was a small yellow box which gave a description of the creature along with an artist's impression. While Harry didn't actually read the description, the picture was enough to make him doubt the existence of such a creature. It looked like a cross between a walrus and an ant-eater, with octopus-like suckers and cat-like whiskers thrown in for good measure. It also appeared to be a delicate shade of lilac. Additionally, there was some fairly compelling evidence to suggest that the Blibbering Humdinger in question was male; however Harry chose not to dwell on that particular aspect of the artist's rendition.

Beneath the story sighting and description of the Blibbering Humdinger was the distinctly more credible claim that Lord Voldemort had formed an alliance with the Giants, however Harry wondered just how many people would actually lend credit to that fact when it was mentioned on the same page as Blibbering Humdingers.

Shaking his head and grinning to himself slightly, he untied the envelope and tore it open carefully. The letter itself had a fairly startling appearance as it was written in white ink on black paper. However Harry soon became grateful of this fact as it was much easier to read in the limited light afforded by his table lamp than, for example, the Ministry's letter had been.

**Dear Harry,**

**After the startling increase in sales after your interview was published alongside several other revealing articles, my father has been able to expand the magazine and increase production quality-**

Harry glanced at the magazine itself. Now that he thought about it, it was looking a little heftier than it had last time. Not to mention more carefully bound and neater.

**Father suggested that we send you a copy to show our gratitude.**

**Yours, Luna Lovegood.**

**P.S. There's an article on page fifty-four which I think will interest you.**

Unable to deny his curiosity, Harry flicked to page fifty four. He read the headline once. And then again. And then a third time.

When at last the message sunk in, Harry burst out laughing.

Momentarily forgetting the fact that he had a letter from Professor Lupin, forgetting the fact his father's journal was there waiting to be read, and even forgetting the fact that a woman he loathed with a fiery vengeance which occasionally transferred into physical nausea was sitting downstairs, Harry settled in to read the article. The article which was headed with the phrase -

**REAL LIFE TESTIMONIALS FROM THE PEOPLE WHO KNEW THE DARK LORD BEST - from his oppressive stage mother, to his experimentation in musical theatre, _the Quibbler_ has all the details from those who knew him best in an exclusive eight page feature.**

It was a good two hours before Harry finished the aforementioned, exclusive, eight-page feature. Only around half an hour of that was spent actually reading with three-quarters of his time spent laughing so hard he had trouble breathing. At one point, Dudley had walked past his room and declared that if Harry was choking to death he'd better do it quietly, because his favourite car show was on.

At that moment Harry had been reading the testimonial of Doris Purkiss (famous for her publicised romance with Stubby Boardman a.k.a. Sirius Black), who swore on her Aunt Betty's grave that "_this so-called Dark Lord Chappie_" was actually the tyrannical manager of the Hobgoblins, Judas Smick. Mr. Smick had apparently become a recluse upon hearing of Stubby's wrongful arrest, and had only pulled himself together upon hearing of Stubby's escape from Azkaban, at which point he swore revenge on everyone who had attempted to harm his star singer. By the time Ms. Purkiss started detailing the Dark Lord's unresolved issues with his Veela ex-wife and "_problems in the bedroom if y'know what I mean, eh?_" Harry had become quite certain he'd cracked a rib.

It had to be said, however, that the wizard in Islington - -who swore that Lord Voldemort was only the way he was because he'd eaten too much Spinach as a boy- - was still Harry's favourite.

By the time he was done, the sun was well up in the sky and any need he had for the table lamp had long since disappeared. Still chuckling to himself, Harry placed the Quibbler on his desk for future reading and flicked off the lamp. As he did so his gaze fell once again on the letter from Lupin. Harry felt a little torn between dread, excitement and relief at the thought of reading it, but there was nothing to be done.

He unwound the scroll carefully and proceeded to scan it. The message wasn't that long really. All it said was -

**Dear Harry,**

**I understand that all your letters have been stopped for a short while. The Order has therefore decided to temporarily postpone its threat to descend upon Privet Drive if you do not contact them at least once in every seventy-two hour period. However I feel it is my duty to warn you that both Nymphadora and Kingsley have stated that they know the exact moment that this blockade shall cease and that if you have not contacted the Order within twenty-four hours of this point, they are coming to get you "Just for a laugh".**

**Whether you permit this scenario to occur is entirely up to you.**

**Signed, Remus Lupin.**

Harry briefly considered letting Tonks and Kingsley 'descend upon Privet Drive', but thought better of it. He scrawled a quick note telling them not to bother, he was fine, and set it to one side to give to Hedwig later.

At that precise moment, however, he was rather more concerned with getting up and stretching. It was amazing what sitting down for two and a half hours could do to a person's blood flow. While he'd never been on an aeroplane, Harry couldn't imagine it as a comfortable experience. As this thought hit him it was accompanied by an image of him sitting on a tiny seat with Dudley on one side of him, Uncle Vernon on the other and Piers Polkiss behind him kicking his chair. It wasn't the first time Harry found himself deeply thankful for brooms and nor, he suspected, was it the last.

The doorbell rang loudly from downstairs, but since there were four other people in the house who were closer to it than he was, Harry paid it no mind.

He absent-mindedly began tidying up his room. Not, you understand, out of any urge to be neat and tidy, but rather out of an urge to know precisely what was on his desk in case Dudley should find himself feeling insatiably curious once again. This meant that most of his homework was tossed carelessly into his trunk. Harry doubted Hermione would've approved of flinging his carefully done homework into a chaotic box where there was a genuine possibility it would never again surface, but he didn't especially mind. Most of his books went in too, apart from his copy of Advanced Transfiguration, which had been left on the desk in a vain attempt to let the contents permeate his mind through osmosis. God knew that nothing else he tried could make that particular volume would ever make sense.

The more superfluous pieces of information found in the crate Lupin had sent him were returned to _their_ respective chaotic box, and the unread copies of the Daily Prophet were piled in a corner of the room. Harry really didn't have much regard for the paper anymore, so they didn't deserve a box. Nor did a stray galleon he found the desk that must've been there for at least a year. He slid that carelessly into his back pocket.

The Quibbler, Advanced Transfiguration and his father's Quidditch Journal were all left on his desk, alongside Ron's letter and his written response to the Order. All in all, he thought it was terribly organised.

He took his seat with a sigh and reached for his father's Quidditch Journal. His hand hadn't even touched it when Aunt Petunia's shrill voice called up to him.

"BOY! GET DOWN HERE!"

Harry wasn't ashamed to admit that he jumped about a foot in the air at this sudden exclamation, however if questioned he would vehemently deny the loud yelp. He rolled his eyes and dragged himself up out of his chair, thoroughly annoyed.

He went downstairs expecting to be ordered to do the dishes or something. He was not expecting to go downstairs to find Aunt Marge hovering in the kitchen doorway, glaring at him suspiciously, Aunt Petunia standing with her hands on her hips and a faintly weary expression on her face, and Mrs Figg standing by the front door with a sour-expression and a sinister-looking cat in her arms.

"Yes, Aunt Petunia?" Harry asked, looking between the three very different women and feeling more than a little bewildered.

"Mrs Figg has some chores for you to do." Aunt Petunia stated. "She said she'll pay you twenty pounds if you do all of them. Do you want to?" Harry actually considered it quite strange for Aunt Petunia to ask him to go do Mrs Figg's chores, rather than tell him to, but he wasn't about to complain. Someone else was going to though.

"Don't _ask_ him Petunia, _tell_ the little brute. Idle hands are the Devil's Workshop!" Aunt Marge announced. "Good hard labour, that's the only way to deal with bad behaviour. Especially for someone like him."

Harry's head snapped round at the use of the phrase 'someone like him'. Did Aunt Marge know he was a wizard? How could she? Surely the Dursleys wouldn't have told her? He looked at Aunt Petunia questioningly, but she was staring up at the ceiling and clicking her jaw in annoyance.

Aunt Marge noticed his astonishment though. "Didn't think they'd tell me, eh?" she asked loudly. "Didn't think they'd tell me just what you've been up to? Or what gave me those strange dreams last night? Eh?"

"Well… I, er…"

"Well I've got news for you boy-o, Vernon tells me everything!" Aunt Marge said loudly.

Aunt Petunia let out a small noise that sounded strikingly similar to a snort. "Somehow I doubt that." she muttered, finally looking down from the ceiling. Harry gave her another questioning look but was soundly ignored. "Mrs Figg!" Aunt Petunia said loudly, cutting off anything else Aunt Marge may have had to say. "What sort of thing was it you wanted him to do?" she asked, jerking her head at Harry.

Mrs Figg had been watching the exchange with something akin to amusement. The gigantic cat in her arms also seemed quite entertained, in a manner eerily reminiscent of Crookshanks. "Oh nothing too strenuous Petunia - Mow the lawn, weed the flower beds, paint the back porch, and the like." Mrs Figg said with a frozen smile.

Standing there and watching her interact with Aunt Petunia, Harry couldn't help but think that Mrs Figg deserved an Oscar or something. In fact he found himself questioning whether she really was an associate of Dumbledore's or if the Order had brain-washed her into it, like they had with Marietta Edgecombe in Dumbledore's office. His fears were laid to rest when Mrs Figg gave him an almost imperceptible wink.

He felt oddly as though he were in a spy movie. A low-budget spy movie.

"Sure." he said. "I'll do it."

"Fine." Aunt Petunia said. "Dinner's at six, if you're not here, you're not getting any." With that, she turned and headed towards the kitchen where Aunt Marge was still standing.

Aunt Marge did not move to let her through though. She grabbed Aunt Petunia's bony arm in what looked to be a very firm and corpulent grip. "Are you sure you should be letting him keep that sort of money Petunia?" she asked in a voice which Harry supposed was meant to be subtle, but it was an unfortunate fact that Aunt Marge had only two noise levels; booming and slightly-less-booming. "Who knows how much he could get for that sort of money?"

Harry frowned. "How much _what_ could I get?" he demanded.

His only response was a quick glare from both his 'aunts'. Deciding that whatever they were arguing about wasn't worth his time, he turned to Mrs Figg. "Give me one minute to grab a jumper." he said.

Mrs Figg nodded. Harry turned and ran up the stairs. Dudley was waiting for him on the landing, evidently trying his hardest to look superior.

"So. You've got to slave away for a mad old bat now, just for a measly twenty quid?" he asked cruelly, leaning against his doorframe. Harry was beginning to wonder if it was a genetic Dursley trait to stand around in doorways. "How pathetic."

"Hey now Big D, words can hurt like a fist." Harry said sarcastically. Dudley looked annoyed. Pleased with this reaction, Harry reached into his back pocket and pulled out a glittering gold galleon. "So… I wonder how much I could get for this?" he asked, flipping the coin up in the air and catching it.

Dudley's eyes bulged out his head as he followed it. "Is that…? That's gold." he said incredulously. "Where did _you_ get gold?"

"Well if I told you, I'd have to kill you." Harry stated, continuing the low-budget spy movie theme. "Anyway. Must be going." he said, moving past his cousin.

"I bet you think you got away with it, don't you?" Dudley called after him.

Harry froze and turned around. "Got away with what?"

"With what you did to Aunt Marge." Dudley said harshly. "Bet you think you're not going to get any trouble for it, don't you?"

A couple of thoughts occurred to Harry at once. The first was that Dudley was comically annoyed and that he should savour it. The second was a tad more ominous. It was based mainly on the strange things Aunt Marge had been saying earlier and Dudley's new talent, discovered the previous night, for getting Harry into trouble as a result of his magical ability. Then there was the fact that Uncle Vernon would've had to come up with an excuse for why he'd been yelling at Harry… The look of something akin to thoughtfulness that had appeared on Dudley's face earlier in the day flashed in Harry's mind, taking on a suddenly malignant meaning.

"What did you tell her?" he asked cautiously.

Dudley grinned viciously but didn't answer.

"Dudley, what did you-?"

"Boy, hurry up!" Aunt Petunia shrieked from down below, sounding distinctly tart and irritated.

A still smiling Dudley turned back into his room. "Better go and earn your pittance." he remarked, slamming the door behind him.

Harry stared at it for a moment, a little surprised by vehement dislike that his cousin had just demonstrated. But mostly he was surprised at the nervousness he felt. "Don't be ridiculous." he admonished himself. "It's just Dudley. What could he possibly do?"

Shaking his head at this foolishness, Harry ran into his room and yanked on a dark grey sweatshirt. He also snatched up his wand and slid it into the back pocket of his jeans and, as an afterthought, grabbed his father's notebook and hid it under the sweatshirt, intending to read it at Mrs Figg's if given the chance. He then went running down the stairs to the front step where Mrs Figg waited, trying not to think about Dudley or anything the great idiot had to say.

He closed the door behind him.

"Everything alright dear?" she asked him in an undertone as they began to move down the garden path.

"Hmm?" Harry said distractedly. "Oh. Yeah. Yeah, everything's fine Mrs Figg. So, what do you want me to do exactly?"


	10. Proof that idiocy is genetic

_As it turned out, Mrs Figg didn't want him to do much at all. A squib she may be, but she still had access to Diagon Alley. This meant she also had access to magical cleaners, self-cleaning appliances, self-watering plants and a vast array of other contraptions that Harry wished he'd known about when he was nine and cleaning her cat-food bowls._

"_I'd still rather like it if you mowed the lawn and weeded the flower beds, Harry dear." she said apologetically. "Just to keep up appearances, you know."_

_Harry had been more than prepared to do these relatively small tasks seeing as how they would keep him effectively away from the Dursleys for most of the day, if he played his cards right. Yes, his father's notebook still called to him and yes, he sort of wished he could monitor Dudley given his recent unsettling behaviour, but he didn't see any particular point in complaining about the fact. Besides, all he had to do was yank off his sweatshirt and do some basic garden work, something he'd been used to doing all his life. If anything it was a nice break from sitting reading all the time._

_After all, no matter how interesting the reading material might be, Harry Potter was not a bookworm by nature._

_It was nearly noon when Harry finished everything. The sun had been beating down on him as he'd cut the grass but there had been enough of a breeze to ensure that this wasn't much of a problem. There was, however, a slight compensation as he was weeding the flower beds. He had found a number of basic magical, if slightly mundane looking, plants. There were, for example, fanged geraniums planted around the spot where Mrs Figg hid her spare house key. A fact which certainly explained a few minor injuries Harry had received at the age of seven, shortly after she'd planted them._

_Once all the garden work was complete, Harry entered Mrs Figg's kitchen to find his neighbour puttering around the cooker and looking extremely busy. "That's all done Mrs Figg." he told her. "Anything else I can do for you?"_

_She looked up sharply. "Pardon? Oh. Oh heavens no, dear. Here, you take a seat. You just a take a seat right now. You look positively exhausted." she fussed._

_Harry was slightly surprised by this. He was a little too hot after being out in the sun all morning and he freely admit that he had probably looked better in his life, garden work did that to a person after all, but 'positively exhausted'? That seemed a little extreme. Nonetheless, Harry took a seat at the kitchen table._

_Mrs Figg thrust a glass of ice cold lemonade at him. "Here you go. You drink that up. I've some biscuits cooking just now if you want them later." she said in a very quick voice. "And the television's just through there if you want to watch it. In fact you've got the run of the whole house if you want it. Do you want a sandwich? I could make you a sandwich. What would you like on it? Cheese? Ham? Cheese and ham? Tuna? Or perhaps egg salad, I could make egg salad-"_

"_Er… Mrs Figg?" Harry questioned, bewildered at this behaviour._

"_Or peanut butter! I know a lot of the kids around here are eating that American stuff. I mean I personally don't actually have any peanut butter but I could get you some if you like."_

"_Mrs Figg?"_

"_Cucumber? It's always been a little plain for my tastes, but maybe-"_

"_Mrs Figg?"_

"_Or maybe you don't want a sandwich. Soup? Pasta? I could make you a-"_

"_Arabella Figg!" Harry snapped, doing his best impression of Professor McGonagall. If that didn't shut a person up he didn't know what would._

_Fortunately, it did. Mrs Figg clamped her mouth shut with a short yelp. Harry took a good look at her. She was a little paler than he remembered her. Her eyes were a bit too wide and she was glancing around a bit too much. She had all the tell-tale signs of a trouble maker. A fact which at least ruled her out as a Death Eater spy, as they didn't tend to send the nervous types to try and do him in. Harry tried to think of other situations that could make a woman like Mrs Figg feel the compulsion to make him a sandwich but he couldn't think of anything. He decided to take the more direct approach._

"_What's wrong?"_

"_Wrong? N-nothing. Not a thing. You don't want that sandwich then?"_

_Harry pulled out the glare. Mrs Figg quickly dropped the act._

"_Oh all right." she muttered bitterly. "I mean you were going to find out sooner or later, I might as well tell you."_

"_Find out what?" he asked carefully._

_Immediately Harry began running through the list of horrific things that could've happened. He hadn't heard from the Weasleys since the Ministry had blocked his post. He hadn't heard from Hermione either. Nor the Order. He hadn't from any of them in days. There could've been an attack. They could've been killed. Voldemort could be holding them captive. The Death Eaters could've gained control of the Ministry. New security measures could've been put in place so that all the previous members of the DA had been sent to Azkaban except for him because he was the Boy-Who-Lived and the Ministry didn't want to be seen to be treating him badly. His friends, his allies, his adopted family… they could all be rotting away in their cells, bitterly cursing his name and vehemently swearing revenge because he, their leader, had abandoned them and left them to die in prison while their very souls were crushed under the weight of-_

"_You're a folk hero." Mrs Figg said solemnly._

_Harry's doomed train of thought came to a screeching halt. "I beg your pardon?"_

_Mrs Figg sighed and rummaged around in one of her pale green kitchen cabinets. She pulled out a copy of the Daily Prophet and passed it to him. The headline read, "**Harry Potter: The greatest hero of our times?**"_

_Harry nearly choked._

"_What the f… what is this?" he asked dumbly. "Who came up with this? Were they drunk? What is this?"_

_Mrs Figg shook her head slowly. "I'm so sorry Harry." she said gravely. "I didn't mean to. I wasn't paying attention… this is all my fault."_

_Harry frowned, confused. He looked back down at the paper in hands and read the short article on the front, which was placed next to a picture of him shortly after Sir… after he'd met Voldemort at the Ministry. The fact that someone thought to snap a picture after having just been called into work for a dire emergency, to the tune of "Almost-Omnipotent Dark Lord On The Premises" boggled Harry's mind a bit. Then he thought about what Colin Creevey would've done under the circumstances, and suddenly it seemed less bizarre._

_Basically all that was on the front page was some rubbish about how 'certain corners' had attempted to discredit him over the previous year and how he'd stayed firm in his belief that the Dark Lord had returned. Granted, they used a lot more purple prose and the phrase "Tragic Hero" far too much, but that was the general point they were trying to communicate._

"_Eh… Mrs Figg? How is this your fault?" he asked dubiously. "I mean unless you were the one to teach Rita Skeeter to use the word 'harrowing' I don't really see how you could be held accountable for this rubbish."_

"_Page eight." she instructed._

_Harry flicked through the paper to land on a picture of his seven-year-old self peering curiously around a display of baked beans in a supermarket. _

_He frowned, trying to remember that day. There had been someone there who'd looked very odd to Harry. He'd been wearing a purple poncho. When Aunt Petunia had sent him off to fetch breakfast cereal, he'd surreptitiously gone after the stranger hoping to get a better look, but he hadn't managed it. Apparently they'd snapped a picture of him though. And apparently that picture was now adorning the pages of the Daily Prophet with the caption 'Harry Potter; before the weight of the world rested on his shoulders'. How is it, Harry wondered, that they always manage to make my life sound more depressing than even I can? It was bizarre. _

_The story was fairly dull, or it was to Harry at any rate since he was pretty much aware of his life story by that point. The article detailed his 'epic journey' from the attack on his parents' house (which according to the news story was a tragedy which still shook the Wizarding World to this very day), to his time in the cupboard (in that particular paragraph he'd been compared to a caged bird, a wronged prisoner, a forgotten hero and, for some unknown reason, a tulip), right the way up to the Triwizard Tournament (during which time he was clearly being persecuted by the Ministry… apparently). Had he been feeling slightly less bored by the whole thing, he would've found it funny. However at that particular moment, boredom did seem to be the dominant emotion, despite his best efforts to move it into the funny category._

"_Mrs Figg, I'm sorry but I'm still not entirely clear… I mean… how could this possibly… this isn't your fault." he finished weakly. _

_Mrs Figg looked as though she sincerely disagreed with this statement. "But… but the cupboard. They didn't know. She got me talking…" she trailed off, looking utterly miserable. "As soon as I saw it I had to make it up to you. I mean you had to do the garden, if you didn't the Dursleys, well they might get suspicious, and with that awful woman staying there and-"_

"_Mrs Figg." Harry said firmly. "This is not your fault. All right? If they don't have anything to write about me, they make things up. It's fine." he assured her. "And I don't want a sandwich." he added, just to be on the safe side._

_It took a bit of doing, but in less than ten minutes Harry had completely convinced her that there was nothing to feel sorry about. She had still been saying things about 'making it up to him' but Harry managed to curb that impulse for the most part. Although he was still getting biscuits "Whether he liked it or not". While almost all of his memories of Mrs Figg's house were called into question upon hearing that she was a squib who knew Dumbledore, Harry recollections of her cooking stayed intact. This meant that he was coming down firmly on the side of "not", but he chose not to lament that point._

_All in all, he was extremely grateful for the small mercies granted on him as a result of that pathetic article. He was going to be able to spend the day away from Aunt Marge and the oddly-ominous Dudley, sitting on a relatively comfortable couch reading his father's journal. Mrs Figg also had a Floo connection in her fireplace, which she said Harry was welcome to use. When he woke up that morning, he couldn't have asked for more._

"_And you're sure you don't want anything else?" Mrs Figg asked him._

"_I'm positive. The lemonade is enough. Really. Thank you."_

"_Oh. All right. If you insist. I really am sorry about-"_

"_It's fine."_

"_Right. Well I'll be upstairs if you need me. Mr Tibbles has just had kittens with Snowball and the little dears need my attention."_

"_Er, right." Harry said, not entirely understanding that sentence. "I'll call if I need anything." he told her, remembering Mrs Figg's strict rule about not going up the stairs without her explicit permission._

_Mrs Figg nodded and disappeared up the stairs. To be honest, Harry was glad to see the back of her. No matter how much more tolerable she was after her revelation, she still wasn't exactly thrilling company. Then again, he would've said the same of Fred and George at that particular moment, mostly because it was nearly one o'clock in the afternoon and he still hadn't read the results of the "battle plans" laid out by his mother, Sirius, Remus and The-Rat-Who-Was-Apparently-Not-Evil-Once-Upon-A-Time-But-Still-Made-Harry-Want-To-Kick-Things._

_Harry snatched up the journal from a side table in the hallway, Harry moved into the flower-patterned living room. A large grey cat was lying at one end of the couch, where the sun was shining. It didn't even raise his head as Harry entered the room. Taking a seat on the more shaded end of the couch, Harry placed his lemonade on the end table, settled in and opened the notebook eagerly._

-

Quidditch Journal

Entry 10

July 16th

Dear Thing,

Evans wrote to me. Unsurprisingly, I'm thrilled by this fact. Slightly more surprising is the fact that, after little-to-no sleep last night, a long exhausting day today, and absolutely nothing to eat all day, I'm too bloody tired to show my thrillededness. Hang on. Thrillededness? That can't possibly be a word. Thrillifiedness? Thrillerised… whatever. I'm thrilled. Really. But I had very little sleep last night, a very tiring day today, hardly any food throughout, and I'm not going to be able to get to sleep for another hour. At least another hour. Possibly closer to two, as I won't be able to sleep until phase one of the Plan Annihilate McLaggen is put into effect.

Phase one is the psychotic teddy bear, by the way. I am grudgingly inclined to agree with Evans when she refers to it as evil incarnate, though I'm not entirely sure who or what a Karen Black movie is. My cabin was in charge of what we should programme it to do, and they settled on ankle biting, pouncing in people's facing and singing "I Know A Song That'll Get On Your Nerves" in a loud and painfully high pitched voice. I think it will also dance a short Haka to announce its presence. Albert came up with the song. He clearly has a sadistic and depraved side to him that no one knew about. It was also generally agreed that we should let it loose in the middle of the night, so as to cause the most disruption. The one small downside of this plan is that I had to physically force each and every member of my cabin to go to bed and go to sleep so that they wouldn't look suspicious when they fall asleep in mid-air tomorrow. Everyone therefore agreed that I have to stay awake to tell them exactly what happened. I'm not entirely sure how it'll look when I fall asleep in mid-air tomorrow, but never mind.

I'm also thinking of unleashing that potion of Evans's on McLaggen tomorrow. Just to add insult to injury, you know?

God I'm tired. I could just sleep right now. But I won't. Nope. I'm staying awake. Awake is how I am and awake is how I'm staying. That's the only reason I'm writing, you know. To keep myself awake. Mum sent coffee, but I don't want to drink all of it in one go. Besides, there's something oddly horrific about drinking coffee on an empty stomach. I don't know why I didn't eat today.

No, wait, hang on. Yes I do. Because breakfast was interrupted by the tangerine-coloured McLaggen who tried to convince everyone that _I_ broke into _his_ cabin and turned everyone in there orange. This led to me being dragged into Uncle Seth's office to discuss the matter, where I had to play dumb for about fifteen minutes before finally saying "Oh, wait, some of the kids in my cabin were messing around the other night and booby trapped the place. But gosh, wait, that would mean that McLaggen would've had to come into _our_ cabin. Heavens, it can't be!" It was pathetic. Even if they'd still been serving breakfast after that, I would've been too disgusted with myself to even contemplate eating. Oh and can I just mention that being dragged in front of Uncle Seth is a lot less intimidating than being dragged in front of McGonagall? And that McGonagall has actually desensitised me to the more innocuous forms of punishment doled out by the fluffier "Authority figures" in the world? I doubt that was her intention when she started screaming at me in first year and assigning me month long detentions, but it's how things turned out anyway. I wonder how she'd react if I told her that? Hmm. Something to consider doing on the last day of seventh year. Assuming that I haven't been injured in Quidditch and can still run, that is.

Then we went to lunch and I had to spend the entire time pretending I wasn't hungry and daring my guys to running Suicides. My guys being my cabin in this instance rather than my fellow Marauders or the actual Gryffindor team. Suicides, for those of you who were not forced to attend practise with that Sociopathic Drill Sergeant who claimed to be my Quidditch Captain in second and third year, are an aerobic exercise. Well, aerobic-exercise-slash-torture-method-inflicted-on-we-poor-Gryffindors-after-every-bloody-practise-for-two-sodding-years. Suicides consist of gathering together a group of incredibly stupid people and forcing them to sprint, or occasionally swim, one hundred metres. These people then drop to the ground and do one hundred push-ups. They then sprint another hundred metres, drop, and do one hundred sit-ups. This is repeated about half a dozen times until someone (usually me, it has to be said) drops to the ground wheezing and begging for mercy. If the slave-driver in question was feeling particularly vicious, the rest of the team would then continue doing suicides until there was only one man or woman left standing. No matter how much I improved, the one man left standing was never ever me. And I did get better at running suicides after third year. I mean I still don't claim to be a picture of health and endurance or anything, but I can do the damned things. This, er, _tradition_ only really became annoying in September when Jess (that would be the drill sergeant in question) decided that September and October were still warm enough months for us to do this swimming in the lake rather than sprinting. And she was, technically, right. I mean no one drowned or froze to death or anything. The down side was that everyone really, really wanted to drown and freeze to death, because it would've been easier than swimming in that ice water.

Anyway, I challenged my guys to them. They did pretty well considering. The first time _I_ was asked to run suicides, I spent about three weeks completely unable to breathe properly and swearing under my breath every time I had to pick my bag up or walk quickly.

Ping was the first to drop after five runs. But he didn't drop when he had nothing left in him; he dropped when he couldn't be bothered anymore, and I respect that fact. Iggy was the next to drop, after doing six runs. I suspect he simply realised he wasn't going to be able to keep up with me, Sofia and Albert much longer and so he decided not to bother. I respect that too. This brings me to Sofia and Albert. While I was running the suicides (in a comparatively leisurely fashion, it has to be said), most of my attention was on those two. Sofia's attempts at push-ups were laughable, but then so were Albert's attempts at sit-ups. That's neither here nor there however, since both of them still did them without a word of complaint. They also kept going until after fourteen runs, neither being exactly thrilled with the thought of losing. I don't think I was officially included in their little competition.

I don't think I've ever been as impressed in my entire life as I was to see Albert actually drop down into the dirt, completely worn-out and gasping for breath, drag himself up again and keep running. It is, without a doubt, the most personality I've seen from the kid and it is also enough to convince me that he has a fairly prominent personality in there somewhere. Sofia also dropped in the middle of her fifth round of push-ups, but she vehemently denies this occurring. It was on the fifteenth run that they started talking. I think Albert was the first to speak, but I couldn't tell for certain as I was doing sit-ups at the time. They came to the conclusion that they were both going to stop at the exact same second. It took them another run and a hundred more push-ups to agree to the terms and conditions of this, but they did it all the same. Both hit the deck within milliseconds of each other.

I would've been happy for them, and possibly proud of them, but I was somewhat distracted by dragging them to the Medi-hut to make sure I hadn't accidentally killed either of them.

As a result of running suicides, I was dehydrated and achy for the rest of the day. Sofia and Albert were probably worse, but at least they had muscle relaxant stuff from the nurse and a special dehydrating agent. Still, both of them looked like death warmed up for most of the day, so I spent the afternoon working with Ping and Iggy while Sofia and Albert pretended to be annoyed with me. I say "pretended to be annoyed with me" because I caught both of them groaning in agony at several points throughout the afternoon and then covering it up.

Then came dinner. Dinner is, usually, an opportunity to feed yourself up and make yourself feel better. However, I received my post at dinnertime. I was so eager to see what the hell was in that gigantic envelope that I only got about two mouthfuls of food down me. And yes, I'm aware that it's my own fault I'm starving.

So here I am, sitting with absolutely nothing to do and waiting for someone in McLaggen's cabin to scream like a girl.

Merlin I want to sleep.

Hagrid wrote to me as well you know. He was very vague and slightly ominous. I'm too tired to really think about it. Recounting rubbish that's occurred throughout the day is one thing but thinking is another entirely. Still, I wonder what he was on about.

Oh Dear Lord, I'm so tired.

And dad wrote back too. He's obviously missing an outlet for his sarcasm without me there. Sirius is always polite around my parents. Don't know why exactly. He's never polite around anyone else.

I. Am. Knackered.

I can't do it. I need to sleep. McLaggen and the teddy bear can take care of themselves. I need to sleep. I can't do it.

-

_With that, the journal entry abruptly stopped. _

_Harry frowned in concentration. He considered himself fairly familiar with exhaustion. Indeed, given his day-to-day schedule throughout the year, his propensity to get involved in slightly illegal and generally tiring extra-curricular activities, and his recent insomnia, Harry was nothing short of an expert on exhaustion. _

_Somehow it seemed strange to him that his father would be quite so weary after doing comparatively little. Harry would concede that "suicides" sounded wearing, that the rest of his father's day sounded horrific and that he probably hadn't had that much sleep the previous night. But surely if his father was half as good a trouble maker as he claimed to be, he could pull an all-nighter without dropping like a rock. It just seemed strange. Particularly if he had coffee._

_Harry took a sip of his lemonade, noticing with slight surprise that the ice cubes that had been in the glass was now completely melted and, judging by the condensation on the glass, had migrated outside. It must be warmer out there than he had initially thought if the ice melted so quickly. As if agreeing with this assessment, the cat that had been lounging in the sun hopped down off the couch and moved into the kitchen, presumably to find a nice shady corner to lie in. Harry watched it go without any real interest._

_What did catch his interest was the clock in the kitchen. And not just because it was distinctly unnerving. It was one of those black and white clocks that were shaped like a cat, where the eyes moved from side to side in time with the swinging tail pendulum. Although that was more than disturbing enough on its own. No, what caught Harry's attention was the fact that the clock showed a time of nearly three o'clock in the afternoon._

_Harry stared at it in surprise. Apparently he was a very slow reader in extreme heat._

_While he fully intended to read a few more entries before dragging himself back to Privet Drive, it occurred to him that he should, perhaps, do one or two of the things he had intended to do that morning before he continued reading. Looking around, he spotted a small stationary set on a sideboard._

_It was pink, flowery and scented, but it was paper all the same._

_Pulling himself off the couch, Harry made his way over to the sideboard and was pleased to see a pen lying nearby. He was less pleased to see bright pink envelopes, a dozen cat figurines and what seemed to be a funerary urn, decorated with kittens frolicking. He didn't know if it was his shifting view of the world over the years or what, but Harry was quickly coming to the conclusion that people who lived like muggles were often a great deal weirder than people who lived like wizards._

_Shaking his head to clear it of any thoughts as to the contents of that jar, Harry picked up the pen and began writing his letter. _

**Ron,**

**Yeah, I'm getting my stuff again. Got a very large delivery last night as a matter of fact. Since my battleaxe of a muggle "Aunt" is staying with on Privet Drive, that situation is a tad more dramatic than it sounds. Fortunately she woke up this morning thinking it was all just a weird dream. "Some nonsense about birds or some such" was her exact phrasing.**

**I'm sitting at Mrs Figg's as I write this (you'd never have guessed from the paper, would you?). She's got a floo connection, but I'm not entirely sure if I'm allowed to be using it. Better not chance it, I suppose. Or she might chuck me out, meaning I'd be forced to go back and face the Dragon. And I'm not talking the nice, pleasant kind of dragon. This isn't Norbert or a friendly Hungarian Horntail. This is Aunt Marge. Her body odour alone makes her more terrifying.**

**Also, I got some interesting news from Luna this morning. She sent me a copy of her dad's paper. I recommend page fifty-four. Quality entertainment, that. Unlike my guest appearance on the front of a certain more popular paper we could mention but won't.**

**One more thing I wanted to ask you: Do you know which team Sofia Ivanova plays for these days? All I can find out is that she's a famous Bulgarian Quidditch Player. None of my, albeit limited, sources seem to be able to tell me more than that. Can you find out for me?**

**Oh and tell the Order not to come visiting, would you? Just in case Hedwig doesn't manage to go see them. Like I said, my Aunt is staying over and I really can't be bothered getting dragged in front of the Ministry on account of that old bat.**

**Writing back, sharp-ish,**

**Harry.**

**P.S. No matter how upset Hermione may get, I can promise Hedwig is much more annoyed at being locked up. Believe me.**

_It was only when he finished that Harry actually thought about how strange it was to be writing to Ron and asking him to call off the Order rather than writing to the Order themselves. He shrugged and told himself that it was merely a back-up plan. He carefully tore away the sheet of paper, folded it up and slid it into the back of his jeans._

_He fell gratefully onto the couch once more, flipped open the notebook and continued reading._

-

Quidditch Journal

Entry 11

July 18th

Dear thing,

Duane McLaggen is an idiot. A nuisance, but an idiot.

I'm writing this first thing in the morning, during basic flight manoeuvres (hey, I'm bored). If you're curious as to why I didn't write yesterday, it's because I was asleep. For twenty seven hours straight, to be precise. I'm told that if I'd eaten all of my dinner, I would have been asleep for about three weeks, but fortunately that isn't an issue. Ms Ivanova surmised the situation beautifully upon my awakening with the phrase "Our darling Duane dosed your dinner."

Not with the Draught of the Living Dead, like a sane person, but with some prissy, overly complex sleeping potion which is depending upon dosage. Draught of the Living Dead - two drops and it's off to the Land of Nod for an indefinite stay. This stuff - every millilitre inflicts a certain period of slumber and therefore the entire plan was dependant upon me eating everything on my plate. Also, Draught of the Living Dead has two ingredients, if memory serves. TWO. This stuff probably took him the better part of an evening to brew up, all to get me out of the way. Completely pointless.

That said, the first thing I did when I woke up, after being made fully aware of the situation, was distribute Evans' little "Litmus tests" around the cabin. Just to prevent it happening again, you understand.

I am led to believe that the ultimate plan was to knock me out, wreak havoc on my guys, and then enjoy three Me-free weeks. Shockingly enough, this didn't work. For a few reasons. Firstly, and perhaps most importantly, it was a stupid idea. Secondly, I didn't eat all my dinner. Thirdly, those booby traps that turned them orange are STILL THERE (they're lime green now and suffered mild hallucinations for a few hours after the fact. I hear Justin Case thought he was the Easter Bunny). And fourthly, my guys are not idiots. Within moments of the alarms going off, shoes, books, lanterns and other objects were being hurled at the heads of McLaggen's cabin. Sofia had also sent Ping in to wake me up. When this didn't work, all of them tried to wake me up. When this also didn't work, they physically dragged me to the medical hut.

Granted, I'm a little sore from the dragging, but that's hardly the point.

I'm told that McLaggen and his minions were sent back to their cabin to 'await trial' as it were. Keeping in mind that they were suffering slight hallucinations at the time, they walked back in to find the Evil Teddy Bear waiting for them. Words cannot express how sorry I am to have missed this event, though Iggy assures me he took pictures.

Meanwhile, back at the Medi-Hut, my guys were spilling some sob story to Uncle Seth about how terribly we've been picked on by the mean old McLaggen. Uncle Seth, proving himself yet again to an example of the perils of inbreeding, bought this story. Unfortunately he also showed slight intelligence by realising that McLaggen probably couldn't have made a sleeping potion from Sloppy Joes and was therefore having stuff sent in. I hate it when idiots in authority suddenly decide to get smart for no reason. It puts a serious crimp in things.

Basically, he's putting a halt on any incoming post that contains anything more than two pieces of paper. Git. He announced this fact to the entire camp, saying that he is quite shocked at this behaviour and that nothing like it had ever happened at the Little Champions International Quidditch Training Camp. This confirms my suspicions that nobody interesting has ever attended this hell-hole before now.

For most of yesterday my cabin was refusing to participate in basic flight manoeuvres without me there. I'd like to pretend this was an act of loyalty on their part, but logic tells me it was self-preservation. After all, they are somewhat responsible for the blockade on sweets from home (I, personally, am more responsible and McLaggen is even more responsible since he was dumb enough to get caught). Also, after McLaggen let Ping nearly smash his skull open, they were probably a tad nervous going out there without me as a back up. Just as a personal feeling on the matter, at that age I wouldn't have gone out flying with no one but Arvid the overly-groomed Swedish guy and Amy the South-African nutcase to protect me from a gory death.

Just to reiterate, my guys are not idiots.

However, since they weren't flying, they had to amuse themselves somehow. They did this by running Suicides, without supervision. They also did it on a team basis: Sofia and Iggy versus Albert and Ping. Shockingly enough, they dehydrated pretty quickly. They then ran to the Medi-hut, got fixed up, and went off to do it all over again.

Fair enough, perhaps they're slight idiots. But their intentions were good! And both Ping and Iggy are getting much fitter.

All in all, I had a very good day. I'm exceedingly well-rested, McLaggen is being "carefully watched" by Uncle Seth, my guys are getting healthy, Sofia is participating, Albert is showing personality, and I might not have to pretend to drug up Iggy. The only down side was that when Amy spotted me, she burst into tears and started hugging me in the middle of the lunch hall. Apparently she was 'worried'. Still, pretty good day all things considered.

-

_Harry paused at the end of the entry and wondered just how long his father's happiness would last. He quickly ran over the explosive elements in his day: Six infuriated children, one infuriated McLaggen, one infatuated Amy, Sofia Ivanova's mother to deal with, Albert Larson's fear of flying to deal with and, most importantly, the fact that his father had just jinxed any chance he had of a calm week the very second he said that he'd had a "pretty good day"._

_Sighing at the man's idiocy, Harry glanced up at the devil-clock. It was nearly half past three. Harry should probably head back to the Dursleys at around four o'clock. This was an unfortunate fact, as Harry had actually been quite enjoying his day up until that point. Nothing at all had gone disastrously wrong, which was nice._

_Feeling quite pleased with himself, Harry went back to reading the journal._

-

Quidditch Journal

Entry 12

July 18th

Dear Thing,

Okay. There's a small possibility I spoke too soon on that whole "Good day" concept. And speaking of concepts gone awry, that bloody teddy bear is a nightmare. On paper, it was sheer brilliance, but in reality it is a complete and utter nightmare.

You see my friends, grateful to them as I am, forgot to plan for one small thing. Yes, I can programme it to do anything I want. Yes I can make it dance the Macarena if I so choose. Yes, I can even make it dance a Haka to announce its presence and sing an annoying song. I cannot, however, turn the bastarding thing OFF. It's still running around, still biting ankles and still driving everyone berserk. It spent most of yesterday hibernating in McLaggen's cabin (which was declared off-limits lest the hallucinations be contagious). The second the front door was opened, the evil little git sprang up and started doing Grizzly impressions. My Great-Aunt Idonea used to have this pet Krup named Nigel that she got from a friend of hers who was replacing him with a Jack Russell terrier. Nigel was constantly hyperactive, disobedient and bloodthirsty; often destroying my Aunt's front garden to such an extent that she had to call Professor Sprout to fix it since it was beyond her capabilities. Nigel frequently ran away and went muggle hunting, with stories of a small dog terrorising the neighbourhood being a regular sight in my Aunt's area.

I would rather have Nigel here than have to spend another frigging day with that demonic little bastard. Actually, I would rather have Nigel here after three weeks of being fed espresso and pure sugar, than have that godforsaken teddy bear here. Do you know why?

Because Nigel, adorable as he was, could be stunned. He could be restrained. He could be fed sleeping potions or calming draughts, he could be soothed; he could be lured away with bits of steak. He could be dealt with. This thing can't be stunned, since technically it isn't conscious in the first place, it doesn't eat or drink, and any restraining spells -from conjured ropes to paralysis- seem to decide of their own volition that they will not be binding a teddy bear. So they fly off past, or occasionally through, the bear and bind the first person they come in contact with. I can only assume this is some form of safety measure put in place to prevent McLaggen and his minions from dealing with the thing quickly, but that's hardly the point.

It has been wreaking havoc for hours now. In fact as I am actively writing this I can hear Amy's cabin screaming from the other side of the camp. For the first time since I arrived, I actually feel sorry for the lunatic.

In other news, I tried Sirius's approach with Albert. You know: get him into a screaming match, call him a coward, get him to deny it and then demand to know why he won't fly. While this approach would doubtless work very, very well with young Mr. Larson in a few years time, once he's hit puberty and is therefore a tad more hostile, as a kid it didn't pan out so well. It panned out rather badly, to tell you the truth. In point of fact, in all my years upon this Earth few endeavours have panned out so appallingly badly since that time I tried to use reverse psychology on Peeves.

We got into a screaming match, certainly. I forget what it was about. It isn't really that important. When the moment seemed right, I decided to spring the "coward" part or aforementioned plan. Rather than deny it or, I don't know, stab me with a dessert fork like a decent human being, young Mr. Larson decided to just give me a look like a kicked puppy and run away.

Well not really run away. I mean we're in the middle of a desert and he can't do magic, where would he run to? But he ran away from me, which is the important part.

So I screamed a few obscenities for a while and smashed my head off a nearby cabin. Then Sofia, demon-child that she is, sprung up behind me and proclaimed "**Nice going there chief. Ever considered a job as an Agony Aunt?**" My response may or may not have resulted in my mother smacking me one. Fortunately, I'll never know. What I do know is that Sofia kicked me in the shins.

Even though Albert came back (eventually), he is currently sitting at the other end of the cabin pointedly not looking at me and generally behaving as though I don't exist. Sofia is rather annoyed. She is reading a book and scowling at everything, including me while occasionally muttering things in Bulgarian. While I don't claim to know precisely what "sadnik" means, I sort of doubt it's flattering. Ping and Iggy, bless em, tried to talk to Sofia and Albert. This didn't go so well for them. They then tried to talk to me. While I was, to my knowledge, perfectly polite, I think they realised that conversational was one of the last words used to describe me.

So, here I am. McLaggen is seething away in his cabin, probably plotting my downfall (and doing so from the bathroom at this point), fifty percent of my cabin currently loathes me, I have no friends, family members or vague acquaintances I can talk to, I'm trapped in the middle of a damned desert on the wrong side of the world, and in the distance I can hear some South African chick screaming about a teddy bear.

Sod it, I'm going to bed.

-

_Harry could admit to feeling sympathetic. After all, he knew what it was like to watch his relationship with his friends and acquaintances go to hell, despite his best intentions. He also knew what it was like to feel too proud to go and beg forgiveness for something which he did with the best of intentions, though Harry strongly suspected that was precisely what his father was going to have to do if he wanted to get either Sofia Ivanova or Albert Larson to talk to him again in the near future._

_Or… past._

_Or rather his father's near future in the context of the Quidditch Journal. Yeah, that's what he meant._

_It occurred to Harry that perhaps he'd better continue reading before he considered contacting Miss Ivanova. Perhaps his father's relationship with the girl had deteriorated even further, until she vehemently hated him. Perhaps the reason Miss Ivanova hadn't spoken to Harry at the World Cup was that she still carried a flame of dislike for James Potter, much like Snape did._

_Better to be sure that he wouldn't be upsetting her by reminding her of his father before writing to her, than to find out when an angry Bulgarian Quidditch Star sent him bubotuber pus via express delivery. He could still ask Ron which team she played for though. After all, where was the harm in that?_

_Turning the page with one hand, Harry picked up his lemonade with the other, draining the entire glass. As he put it back down, something peculiar caught his eye out the window - A police car was turning onto Privet Drive. _

_Strange, though this was, it wasn't an entirely unheard of phenomenon. Harry had even heard of the police turning up at the Dursleys front door one half-term break to warn Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia that if Dudley was caught vandalising cars again then he would be charged for it. Naturally, neither Vernon nor Petunia had told Harry this. It was just one of those things he heard people chatting idly about on the streets, spoken about in the faintly disapproving but ultimately gleeful tones that marked most middle-class suburban gossip. Though why any police cars would be going onto Privet Drive just now, when Dudley had been decidedly well-behaved thanks to Aunt Marge's presence and when no disturbances had occurred to Harry's knowledge, was quite the oddity._

_Though he had no doubt he'd hear Aunt Petunia discussing it in some detail over dinner. Harry could just imagine her pressed up against the glass, craning her long neck to see where the car would stop… shaking his head at the bizarre and insatiable urge the people of Privet Drive had to gossip, Harry went back to his notebook._

-

Quidditch Journal

Entry 13

July 19th

Dear Thing,

There's a certain irony to be had when one considers that this entry is my thirteenth. As I'm sure you know, the number thirteen has both immensely good and terribly bad connotations, leading to an almost never-ending debate as to whether the number itself is inherently good or bad. I've always found this debate moronic. How can a number be anything in itself, when it only used to quantify other things? Thirteen N.E.W.T.s, for instance would be nothing short of brilliant. Thirteen armed lunatics attacking you in the dead of night, however, would be quite undesirable.

This is the reasoning that led to my belief that no number is inherently good or evil, and that people who claim to have a 'lucky number' are merely deluding themselves and attaching obscure meaning to nothing.

I have since been re-educated.

The number thirteen is a sign of purest evil. It is the number of the devil, of Voldemort, of McGonagall on a bad day. It is the number of levels of hell, no matter who says otherwise, it is the street number of Snape's childhood home, it is the number of years one must live before properly reaching the hell that is puberty. There is nothing good about the number, and anyone who says otherwise is an agent of Satan. And just to prove it, this is my thirteenth entry. What more evidence do you need? Honestly?

You see, the unfortunate fact is, I'm an idiot.

After the disaster that was my "confrontation" with Albert, I decided to abandon any thoughts of giving those potions that mum sent me to Iggy. I figured I should try the more direct approach. This was my first mistake. You see I am far more adept at lying, cheating, intimidating and generally being an annoying bastard, so I tend to use these methods to get what I want. This has almost always worked for me in the past and I should've known better than to screw with it now. But, as previously mentioned, I'm an idiot.

So I sat him down when we were alone in the cabin. I explained to him that I didn't think he was unhealthy, that I didn't think he was asthmatic, that I didn't think he had hay-fever, that I didn't think he bruised unnaturally easily, that I didn't think he fractured unnaturally easily, and that basically every single health problem he told me he had was, in my opinion, rubbish. I told him that he had been forced to go somewhere against his will, do something he didn't want to and have a lot of pressure placed on him at a very young age that he shouldn't ever have to deal with. I told him that if this happened in other areas of his life as well, not just Quidditch, then it would be perfectly understandable for him to create reasons that meant he could no longer do these things. I explained that he may not even be aware of consciously concocting these reasons and that no one was accusing him of lying or letting his imagination run away with him or anything so condescending. I pointed out that he ran suicides without any real trouble, and that he hadn't experienced any serious problems in the time he's been here and that he is, more or less, perfectly capable of doing anything we set him out to do. I asked that he consider this possibility and that if he thought it he thought it had any merit, and then he could come back to me. If he wanted help in getting rid of some of the pressure his family put on him then I would be perfectly ready, willing and able to help him with it. Just, please, would he consider the possibility?

He called me an insensitive ass, had an asthma attack and locked himself in the bathroom.

Again, I'm an idiot.

And whilst I would really love to say that Iggy is occupying most of my waking thoughts at the present moment, I really can't make such a claim.

You see, another one of my troupe is top priority at the moment as her problem is a bit more tangible than Iggy. Well, I suppose being locked in a bathroom is a fairly tangible problem, but that isn't really his problem that's just a symptom of his problem and I can't help him with his ACTUAL problem until he asks me to. So Sofia's problem is top priority, partly because it is tangible and partly because (surprise, surprise) it's my fault.

My intentions were good, for all that it matters.

If you recall I was spending some time agonising over writing a letter to a certain Aunt Boyka a while back. I'm rather terrible at asking for favours and even worse at begging for help. So when I was forced to write a pleading letter to a woman named Boyka who lives in Scotland and has a Quidditch Prodigy as a niece, I was a tad unclear on how to go about it. My solution to this was to simply ask her to contact me with regards to her niece's future in Quidditch. (Because even if the little witch isn't talking to me, she's damn well going to have a future in Quidditch if I have any say in the matter. And believe me, I intend to see to it that I have a say in the matter.)

I expected Aunt Boyka to write back, to prove she's amenable to the discussion, etc, etc. I did not expect to be interrupted during basic flight manoeuvres with an emergency note from Uncle Seth telling me that Aunt Boyka would be meeting me at nine o'clock this evening to discuss Sofia. Or, well, I assume it's Aunt Boyka since she's the one I wrote to. Uncle Seth's oh-so-enlightening note just said "There is someone coming to meet you at five o'clock to discuss Sofia Hristina Ivanova, you can use my cabin for privacy if you want" followed by some nauseating note about how forming bonds between ourselves and young people is the foundation for all blah blah blah.

I informed Sofia of this fact and she became very annoyed. To be honest, I debated not telling her at all, since I knew she'd get annoyed. But it's her family, her talent, and her future so it seemed appropriate that she should at least be present during the discussion. She eventually got over it after attempting to beat me to death with her book (she's re-reading that Animagi one, which is just typical). You know, it really worries me that I continue to like this girl, as she is quite clearly psychotic and quite clearly wants me dead. Ah well, story of my life I suppose.

So as a summary of my situation: I am sitting in a cafeteria on my own, being served "Sloppy Joes" again. Albert hates me. Iggy hates. Sofia hates me. Ping is mildly confused by the whole situation since no one will tell him why they hate me. And some Bulgarian woman from Scotland (ponder that a moment) is coming to meet me at nine o'clock tonight. Oh, and McLaggen wants me dead. He tried and failed to curse me this afternoon and wound up unconscious in a dustbin. This last part isn't really important at all, but it's still annoying.

In other news, I'm thinking of having myself sterilised to save any unfortunate future child the pain and torment of having me as a father.

-

_Having just finished an entry, Harry glanced up as Mrs Figg came down the stairs, carrying a cat like a baby. She had gone up the stairs in a skirt and a fuzzy blue cardigan, with carpet slippers on her feet. She came down in a mechanic's old boiler suit and work-boots, with protective gloves on. Harry wondered vaguely for a moment just what Mr Tibbles' little dears got up to if they required that kind of protective gear. He chose not to dwell on the thought as she disappeared into the kitchen._

_Shrugging, he went back to reading, with little concern about the outside world._

-

Quidditch Journal

Entry 14

July 19th

Dear thing,

I don't believe it. I don't BLOODY well BELIEVE it.

It wasn't Aunt Boyka. The woman who sent the letter? The woman who was going to meet me? It wasn't Aunt Boyka. It was Sofia's mother. I assume she got the letter before Aunt Boyka or she just wrote the response or, I don't know, maybe she just scared Aunt Boyka into submission. I don't know and I don't care.

What I DO happen to care about is the fact that the very second Sofia laid eyes on her she turned a whiter shade of pale and bolted. I don't mean "bolted" like Albert bolted, and I don't mean "bolted" like Iggy bolted earlier. I mean she ran right outside and into the pitch-black desert. All the while her INSANE mother was screaming after her in Bulgarian. And, of course, since everyone else was at a campfire-sodding-night at the other end of the compound, they couldn't bloody stop her.

Obviously I went to go after her and was sidetracked by McLaggen disarming me as I ran. There's a chance I cursed him, I don't really remember, but since he didn't cause any more trouble after that I'm assuming that either I did or someone else did.

Seeing that Sofia was gone and being naturally aggravated at this turn of events, I went back into Uncle Seth's office with the full intention of killing her mother. It's at THIS point that Aunt Boyka shows up and starts having a slight bloody problem. They got into it and I had to separate them. Not out of any real urge to separate them, just because Aunt Boyka was losing.

The two of them must've caused quite a commotion because it was then Uncle Seth decided to show up along with half the camp. Including my suddenly cooperative little gang. Once Uncle Seth, the blockheaded halfwit, was informed of the situation he said he'd send out a search party. This search party of his? Consisted of Amy the South-African nutcase and Arvid the overly-groomed Swedish guy. Shockingly enough they didn't find her.

Meantime, I'm trying to get this idiot to contact the Australian Ministry or something. Get someone official in there and find her before she freezes to death (it gets cold at night out in the desert, apparently. Not in the compound thanks to the sodding campfire nights, but out there is does). But he's having none of it. He says that any official Ministry involvement might reflect badly on the Camp and attract unwanted media attention to the matter.

I would've punched him right there if Albert hadn't got there first.

So we were sent back to our cabin and told to wait. Sofia's mum and that Boyka woman were sedated, and me and my guys were dragged, literally dragged, back to our cabin. I, James Potter, was locked in my room by a Swedish guy who uses thirty different hair styling products a day. I'll never live it down.

And before you even ask, I'm only writing in this thing for two reasons: Firstly, to fill in time until Arvid's locking charms start to wear off the back window as I estimate the weakest spell was cast there. And also to keep written evidence, which will hopefully be given to every Wizarding newspaper on the planet, when they discover that the inbred prat in charge of this place would voluntarily leave a seven-year-old girl to die of exposure because of his goddamned PR.

In case the previous paragraph didn't make it clear, I'm going to drag that little nutcase back here if it kills-

-

"_Harry dear, you didn't eat your biscuits." Mrs Figg announced disapprovingly._

_Harry's head snapped up, surprised to find Mrs Figg standing in front of him wielding a baking sheet covered with chocolate cookies. "Huh?" he asked dazedly._

"_Your biscuits Harry. You didn't eat them." Mrs Figg repeated._

_Biscuits? She was worried about biscuits? There was a girl lost out in the desert for pity's sake! "Yeah, er, sorry Mrs Figg." he said contritely. "They didn't burn or anything did they?" he asked, trying to pretend he cared. She had made them for him, after all._

"_No, no, not at all. They were on a timer." Mrs Figg assured him, moving back into the kitchen. "But they're all cold now. And you'd best be getting back home so you can't eat them now." she added._

_Harry glanced up at the disturbing wall clock. It was ten past four. Mrs Figg was right, he should be getting back… well not home, but to the Dursleys at any rate. Annoyed greatly by this fact, Harry snapped the notebook shut and hopped to his feet. "I'm sorry Mrs Figg." he said, going into the kitchen after her and nabbing his sweatshirt as he went. "I just forgot about the biscuits. Really, I'm sorry they went to waste."_

_He entered the room to find Mrs Figg rummaging around a drawer. "Don't be silly." she told him, finally emerging triumphantly with a small cardboard box. "They won't be going to waste."_

_She yanked a small clear plastic bag from the box and began bundling biscuits inside. Harry was mildly grateful for this consideration on her part as it meant that he wouldn't be forced to go downstairs and see Aunt Marge next time he felt hungry. Only mildly though, as he remembered Mrs Figg's cooking. "Thanks Mrs Figg. That's good of you." he told her, pulling his sweatshirt on over his head._

"_The least I could do." she said modestly._

_Less than five minutes later Harry was pounding his way along the pavements of Little Whinging, with a bag of a dozen biscuits in one hand and a piece of flowery stationary, his wand and a twenty pound note tucked into his back pocket. His father's notebook was stuffed in the waistband of his jeans and covered by his sweatshirt, mostly to avoid any awkward moments with Dudley which would no doubt lead to further inquiry from Aunt Marge._

_He wanted to get back to number four as quickly as possible. He wanted to get in, get upstairs, give that damned note to Hedwig and get back to reading. It was imperative that Harry get back to reading, as he suddenly found his mind full of dire scenarios, most of which involved some terrible fate befalling Sofia Ivanova. He found this strange since he knew for a fact that she was going to go on to play in the Quidditch World Cup, but at the same time he knew more than anyone that just because someone survived a distressing incident didn't necessarily mean they got through it unscathed._

_His curiosity was piqued somewhat when he saw the police car he'd seen earlier parked outside the Dursleys house however his urge to know what happened to Sofia was much greater._

_He shot into the house like a rocket, heading straight for the stairs without so much as a glance around him. "I'm back from Mrs Figg's, I'll be upstairs, and I don't want any dinner!" he called, feeling that this conveyed any and all information that would need to be communicated._

"_Hold it!" an unfamiliar voice snapped._

_Harry screeched to a halt on the fourth step._

"_Harry Potter?" the voice asked._

_Harry, who was suddenly very much aware of the wand in his back pocket, turned around slowly, reaching his free hand behind him to have easy access to the wand._

"_Yes, officer, that's him." Aunt Marge said maliciously._

_Aunt Marge's comfortable attitude with this person didn't lessen Harry's nervousness. After all, throw a Death Eater into a police uniform and set him after Harry, Aunt Marge would be yelling encouragement throughout without ever knowing that she had been encouraging a Wizard._

_Keeping this fact in mind, Harry moved slowly and cautiously down the stairs and into the living room. Two police officers, one a tall and lanky male, the other a petite blonde woman, were standing by the window waiting for him. Aunt Marge and Aunt Petunia were sitting on the couch, but he paid them very little attention. "Yes?" he demanded._

"_Hello Harry, my name's Peggy." the woman said with a smile._

_Harry raised his eyebrow. "Hi Peggy, pleased to meet you. What the hell do you want?"_

_Peggy and her partner exchanged a look. "Harry? Could I have a look at your biscuits please?" Peggy asked._

_Harry was too confused by this statement to respond for a moment. "Pardon?" he asked._

_Aunt Marge got to her feet, looking both irritated and excited. "Look, what are you waiting for? I already told you everything. He spends all day in his room, he eats far too much, he was behaving strangely last night and I got strange dreams, and now he comes back here and tries to go straight upstairs with those… those… hash brown things!" she said, gesturing at Harry plastic bag._

_Harry was slightly confused at having his chocolate biscuits referred to as potato products, but he chose not to comment. He could already tell that this was unlikely to end well for him. _

"_AND he goes to St. Brutus's Secure Centre for Incurably Criminal Boys!" Aunt Marge added, with an accusing glare at Harry._

_Deciding to look at Aunt Petunia at last, Harry turned his attention to the couch. His Aunt was staring resolutely out the window, apparently pretending to be deaf. Oh wonderful._

_Peggy and her partner didn't look entirely convinced yet, so Aunt Marge played her trump card. "And he's got scruffy hair!" she announced, as though this changed everything._

_Sighing, Peggy's partner came over to Harry. "I'm sorry son," he said in a tone that Harry supposed was intended to be soothing but really just came across as condescending. "But at your Aunt's insistence and in light of some… well, circumstances, around this area, we're going to be forced to take you in for questioning." he said sternly. _


End file.
